


Waxing Crescent

by letterstonorah



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:59:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 74,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1673888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterstonorah/pseuds/letterstonorah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An inter-species family living on the harsh, desert-planet of New Vulcan, life has never been easy for the S'chn T'gai-Uhuras. </p><p>One main story with bonus snippets interweaving past, present, and future. Part kid fic, part drama/angst, part romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Daughter of the Storm

Selik's pet sehlat refuses, as Mama would say, to get with the program. He collapses into an obstinate heap, panting, fangs glistening with saliva, ears flopping in the desert wind.

His stubborness is very, very frustrating, indeed. One cannot afford to waste time when running away. One must move expeditiously. One must disappear into the night before Samekh awakens from his slumber. One must become like the mutant Storm, the Wind-Rider, the Goddess of the Plains, who just like Mama comes from Kenya. Ororo Munroe trekked across the Sahara and Serengeti,  _Maasai Mara,_ and survived snakes and lions and cheetahs and black rhinoceroses and the dry season by harnessing the power of thunder, lightning, rain, wind. Storm is not afraid of the night. She is the night. Selik endeavours to press on through the blackness of New Vulcan's witching hour with the same tenacity and courage of the most powerful X-Man of them all.

Selik knows absolutely everything there is to know about Storm because Mama bought her all the comics. Selik has read every issue in preparation for her  _kahs-wan._ Her middle name, T'Rama, means Lady of Thunder; therefore it is a statistical certainty that she is Storm's descendant, the latest in the ancient line of priestesses who wield magic like demigods. If Storm's powers appeared during her desert trek, wouldn't Selik's appear during her ritual coming-of-age out in New Vulcan's wilderness?

Her logic is extremely, extremely, undeniably sound, yet Samekh will not see reason.

"I understand that you have been anticipating your  _kahs-wan_  for fourteen standard months and eight days, since your cousin Yoris underwent his, and that this is not the news you desire to hear, but I am your father, and it is my responsibility to see after your well-being," Father had said, his voice stern and his posture perfectly straight as he sat at the edge of her cot, the one she usually shared with her twin sister Amayel.

"You are being illogical, Samekh!" said Selik, upon hearing his declaration. She sat up, the brightly-colored afghan that Mama knit slipping off her chest and shoulders. "Your judgment is clouded by emotion. I suggest you meditate to regain control. You sound like  _V'Tosh Ka'tur._ "

"That's enough, Selik," said Mama. She stood in the door frame of Selik and Amayel's bed chamber _. "_ You do  _not_  talk to your father like that. I don't care what you think. End of discussion."

Mama spoke in that tone that almost always quieted Selik's protests.

Not tonight.

"But why am I not allowed to go? Nineteen of my associates at school have completed their journeys already," said Selik, remembering how Amiv refused to use a dermal regenerator on his cuts and scrapes, wearing them proudly for weeks. He was Selik's most compatible classmate, and she appreciated hearing him recount his experiences.

"Your peers do not have to contend with the same health issues that you do. Though your respiratory functions continue to improve, your lungs cannot take the significant strain that ten days in the desert would require," Samekh said, his tone rising in volume fractionally. She'd heard this all before, but had she not proven her physical stamina through her success in martial arts competitions? Papa said that he would allow her more freedom in athletic pursuits if she kept up with her meditation schedule and was diligent in taking her medication, which she had been. Selik only needed to be reminded about her medicine every few days.

"I would bring my inhaler and oxygen hypos. Please, Samekh? Mama?" she asked, and she hated Samekh for reducing her to this illogical, begging state!

"I have made my decision, and it would be logical for you to accept what you cannot control. It is done," he said.

Samekh went to stroke her cheek, but Selik pulled away in time, burying her face into the pillow, which smelled of detergent and Mama and Samekh and Amayel and cotton and sehlat hair.

"Are you letting Amayel go on hers?" asked Selik. She was quite certain she already knew the answer to that.

Samekh's lips thinned into a tight line. "Amayel does not desire to go."

Selik felt quite tempted to roll her eyes, but she thought of how her Honoured Great-Grandmother T'Pau would chastise her if she were there to see it it. "Of course she doesn't desire to go. Your perfect daughter, whose wishes always automatically fall in line with your wishes. It is no wonder why you cherish her more than me and give her everything she wants." Selik knew that her breaths were growing uneven, but very carefully, she counted each inhalation and exhalation in her head, trying to appear calm.

"Selik. This-one cherishes you more than oxygen," Samekh said, even though his words were very clearly lies.

"If it's  _not_  true, then where is Amayel now? You let her spend three weeks at camp, but not me. You half smile at her. You raise your eyebrow at her. I am not unobservant. I see these things. I see how much you care for her. I am your burden. Well, I do not care, because you are my burden, as well. That is all you are to me," she said, breaths growing more rapid, and it felt like an electrical storm beneath her rib cage, emotions densening.

Mama walked across the room and sat next to Selik, displacing Samekh. He stood but remained by the cot, and Selik wished he'd go away. "My darling, fiery, brilliant girl. I suggest you stop speaking right now before you say something you'll later regret," she said, her hand grasping Selik's. The feel of Mama's heated grasp made Selik's whole being throb with warmth and understanding. A trick. Selik tore her hand from Mama's and turned to face the stone wall, knees clutched to her chest. She wished the front of her hair was not braided into cornrows so the coils could fall loosely in front of her face and cover her eyes.

"The only thing I find regrettable is that Samekh is my father," said Selik.

"Sel-"

"And you, Mama, have betrayed me. You said I was a Daughter of the Storm. You said I could summon Storm's strength during my  _kahs-wan_ , yet you let Father ruin my hopes. You will not let me do anything important. You will not let me do anything I want. I might as well be dead. That is what you want, isn't it Samekh? I heard you tell Samekh-il, that I test your control. That I exasperate you. Fine then. You no longer have to deal with me. Go. Let me alone. I do not desire to engage in conversation any longer." She felt her lip wibble, but she would not cry. Not ever. She hadn't done so since she was an infant and she was not about to start now. She would maintain control. She was seven years old. Practically an adult-though not as foolish an adult as her papa.

Samekh walked to the corridor, pausing at the door. He did not turn around to face her when he spoke. "I cherish thee, daughter. Know that. You are my  _ashal-veh._  Sleep well, my ko-fu."

"Liar," Selik whispered, so quietly that not even Samekh or dogs could hear.

That had been two hours ago. Now, she was nearly ten kilometres away from home, had sneaked out with her sehlat when she heard Samekh and Mama fighting in their bed chamber.

"Xerxes, why must you be so obstinate?" Selik asks her sehlat, though she knows that this is a very illogical query to pose to a being who cannot speak and thus cannot answer her. Alas, she is asking because she is upset, not because it is the sensible thing to do.

Father would not be proud of this emotional reaction, but Selik does not care about what Father would or would not be proud of. Fathers are illogical creatures, and Selik does not understand them one bit. She is age seven, and therefore knows everything. Father is old, and therefore knows nothing.

"Come, Xerxes. We must run away into the desert and never return. Your cooperation in this endeavour is paramount."

Xerxes does not budge. Rather, he points his snout westward, back toward home, then whines.

"Are you tired, boy? It is true, we have walked many kilometres," says Selik, then pats Xerxes' head. According to her internal clock, they'd left their house 2.1 hours ago exactly. "I, too, require rest." She sits down, leans her back against Xerxes' sturdy chest.

Quite unexpectedly, her stomach demonstrates signs of hunger, 'growling.'

Of course, Selik is very intelligent, and she has packed sustenance. She removes a cactus fruit from a small baggy and dives into the soft, sweet, sticky flesh. "Most satisfactory," she says, after several bites, then gives the rest to Xerxes, who seems to agree with her assessment of the snack.

After a short rest and partaking of sustenance, she pulls on Xerxes' neck, toward the red hills out before them that in time give way to glorious mountains. "If we do not keep going, Samekh will surely find us. Come now."

With a sigh, Xerxes stands, nuzzling Selik's cheeks, which is his way of asking her to get on top of him. Usually, she would not put her sehlat through such an indignity, but she is very fatigued, and he is, after all, offering. "As you wish, boy," she says, and hoists herself up on to his back, legs straddled on either side, her fingers dug into his thick fur. "To the beyond," she says, and he obeys. When they reach the foothills, she reaches into the pocket of her robes to retrieve her inhaler. She requires only a small puff. As her hand combs the soft fabric, she feels only a hole, three of her fingers poking through it. The inhaler is gone, but no matter. She does not require it after all.

Xerxes whines, again pushing his head back westward toward their property, but she presses forward. She recognises that each inhalation of air is giving her body only 76.1% of the oxygen it needs, but 76.1% is much more 0%, and she will be fine. She wishes she'd thought to bring her face mask-a filter that concentrated oxygen in the atmosphere to make up for the mucus and irritation in her bronchi, but it is illogical to wish for things that cannot be obtained, so Selik puts the thought away.

Then she feels a tendril of emotion from Samekh snake through their bond. It starts small and thin then grows so hot, Selik thinks she will burn alive from the inside.

He knows she is gone.

 _Selik,_  she hears in her mind,  _Selik, Selik, Selik, Selik_. She tries using the techniques Samekh-il taught her to shut away his presence in her mind, to create distance, but she is not strong enough, and a torrent of sensations and feelings she cannot identify seem to call out to her.

Selik commands Xerxes into a gallop, his powerful, mammoth legs carrying her farther away from the compound. Between the bounce of Xerxes' gait and her already compromised respiration, Selik struggles to catch her breath. She wheezes and gasps so loud she cannot hear herself think, or the call from Mama and Samekh in her head.


	2. Desert Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look backwards.

There is a chance Nyota will not survive, so when Spock names his twin daughters, he names them for her. Selik, a shorthand of _s'yel'iki,_ which means: _from the soul of a star._ And Amayel: _l_ _ike a star._ His girls are painfully beautiful, like their mother, and it hurts his chest to gaze upon their perfect, tiny, wiggling forms. Spock notes that his lungs are not accustomed to the physiological demands of fatherhood, because since the birth of his daughters, they've not ceased to tighten and constrict uncomfortably, a dull, aching presence near his sternum. He does not wish for Selik or Amayel to ever leave his embrace, but he must so they may lie together in the air chamber and soothe each other. He stands over the glass, his hand reaching through the slot to rest between their diminutive bodies, touching their hands. Selik grasps his thumb, Amayel his pinkie.

 _Samekh,_ he hears vaguely from the both of them, not as a word but as an idea, a concept, an image, a feeling, and most of all, a smell. To them, he is a particular configuration of pheromones, skin cells, soap, aftershave. _Where there is Samekh, there should also be Komekh,_ they think, again, not in so many words. They long more than anything for their mother, for the one who carried them, whose belly had been their home for nearly a year. She is shea butter and palm oil and engine grease and _burntness_ from short circuited wires. She is lullabies and harsh swear words uttered violently at computer consoles. They cry out for her even as they sleep, a pang in the bond that Spock must shut away in order to carry on functioning at all, lest he remember, too, that without Nyota he is nothing but a half-thing.

"I will remain at your side as long as it is required to do so, and there exists a high probability that I will remain even after that fact," Spock tells his daughters. Spock knows that they cannot understand the precise meaning of his words, but they are used to hearing his voice frequently. He hopes that his particular cadence will be a comfort to them, an anvil to anchor their little minds and little bodies to this world. A reason to live.

#

13.2 Standard hours ago, Spock found Nyota lying prone and unconscious in their quarters, bleeding from her vagina, sweaty.

The two of them had taken a joint posting on a space station satelliting New Vulcan, never more than a beam away from New Shikhar's state-of-the-art medical facilities. Though Nyota was technically on temporary leave for her mandated bed rest, Spock's position still required he go on away missions. He was on one such fact-finding expedition on a Gamman moon several light years from Vulcan Beta 6 when he heard her wailing in his mind, so loud he thought it was something he was perceiving audibly rather than psychically.

He requested immediate transport back ship-side, beaming up to a ship called the Pisces, then to the Persephone, then finally back to the space station, hopscotching across the galaxy in what took no more than seven minutes and twenty nine seconds. The metallic smell of iron and the tangy smell of salt filled their quarters as the door slid open. Healers were already on their way. They could not even wait to beam Nyota down to New Vulcan. A surgeon cut into her right there in the med bay, and it was only two hours later, when they were all more or less stable, that they made their journey planetside.

"Meditate with me, my son," says Sarek, a hand on Spock's shoulder, grip tight. Like it always was when Spock was a child, Sarek appears out of nowhere, never one to announce his presence.

"I will not leave their side," says Spock.

"It is not necessary to do so," Sarek assures him, who has been here since they all arrived, not so quietly or subtly barking orders to anyone in charge who would delay care of his granddaughters.

The healers, one woman named T'Shael and another named Arev, press their hands to Selik and Amayel's bulbous bellies to monitor their condition. A Vulcan healer's empathic sensors are more sensitive than any scanner or biobed. T'Shael is old, older even than T'Pau, and blind. She has seen to 22,000 patients in her lifetime. Arev is fresh out of her medical studies at the New Vulcan Science Academy, a prodigy in neonatal development in high-risk births. They nod to Spock that he and Sarek may meditate in the room whilst they carry out their exam. It takes Spock seventy-two more seconds before he is ready to remove his hand from the air chamber, his fingers losing contact with Selik and Amayel.

"Their minds are very robust and active despite physical weakness, which is promising," says T'Shael.

Sarek and Spock sit across from each other on their knees a few feet away from the air chamber, hands joined to meditate. For moments, there is silence, as a link is established, then the warble of soft, infant crying in the background as T'Shael and Arev tend to the babies. The beeping of monitors.

Then the feel of Sarek's calm radiating to Spock colossal and unyielding.

Nyota is in surgery. Spock can feel her in his mind, and now so can Sarek. _Focus on the bond,_ says Sarek. _Cling to her._

And Spock does.

#

Selik and Yel stare at Spock with eyes so like Nyota's he wonders if they are her clones—though this is of course an illogical line of inquiry. They represent a genetic combination of both he and their mother, a result of parent gametes fusing via fertilisation. Subsequent mitosis. Accidental, odds-beating miracles.

His daughters' lips pout and poke. Large, brownish pink. _Nyota's_ lips. Their skin is red-brown, only a few shades lighter than Nyota's. Otherwise, they favour him phenotypically. The hint of olive on their pale palms match his. With a preposterous amount of sincerity, he kisses the bottoms of their feet and mutters, "Perfection, perfection, perfection. _Lafot-fam. Pa-shi-lafosh-fam. Buhfik kofu-lar t_ _'nash-veh_ _."_ Without fault. Without discernible error. My perfect daughters.

Amayel is quiet and serene, and Spock posits that it is her congenital deafness that makes this so. Her world is quiet, and so she is quiet. She misses her mother's womb, that much is obvious, but she lies in the incubator contentedly serious, eyes gray, rheumy, wide open, taking it all in, and she is so much like Sarek that the various healers have begun calling her pi'Sar, little Sarek. Stern, serious, peaceful beauty. There is a trace of Amanda in her, too, that Spock does not like to linger on, something about the curve of her ears, the proportion of her chin to her cheeks, the set of her eyes.

There is nothing quiet inside Selik. She does not sleep. She will not take milk. She wails and wails, only ever soothed when held naked against her father's bare chest—and even then it's a tenuous sort of peace. Her middle name will be T'Rama. Lady of Thunder. It is Arev, the young healer, who suggests it.

In two days, S'chnn T'gai Uhura Selik T'Rama has surgery on her bronchi, and it is likely that after that she will still need supplementary oxygen for the rest of her life. Selik wheezes and wheezes, loud and hiccupping. If Spock were prone to bouts of illogic he would say it sounds like a song. Of the two, she is so clearly Nyota's daughter. Never satisfied with easy answers and solutions, always wanting, striving, angry, so deeply compassionate and feeling that every spark of emotion blazes. A candle that never stops burning.

He uses a cloth to secure Selik tightly to his chest, her little cheek just above where his heart would be were he human. "My little electrical storm," he says. "What gods have I pleased to be favoured with a child such as thee?"

#

The first time Nyota met Spock she called his translation of Ho' je Jat, _'overly literal to the point of complete incomprehensibility, with zero consideration for the Klingon cultural context. An embarrassment to linguists everywhere. An embarrassment to the Federation. To Vulcan. And all humanoids.'_

It was at a conference in Addis Ababa. He'd been giving a presentation on the recently unearthed Skeleton Scrolls as a representative of Starfleet. Spock's computer program _Fenius_ ™ was to aid researchers in their efforts to decode the writing therein, a previously unheard of language that was loosely Semitic, but only barely so, and more alien than anything anyone had ever seen on Earth.

"And tell me, Lieutenant-Commander Spock, where are these sacred documents now?" a young woman asked, later identified as a PhD student named Nyota Uhura. She wore a short dress and over-the-knee socks, oxfords, a cardigan.

It was an outfit that made Spock feel—interestingly.

He cleared his throat, which had suddenly become dry, took a sip of the water provided for him, then: "I assume you refer to the original Scrolls?" Digital copies were available through most university databases.

Uhura gripped the microphone tightly and stared at him with unblinking eyes, pursed lips.

"I will take your silence for an affirmative. To answer your question, the Scrolls are presently located in San Francisco, where the galaxy's top researchers are—"

"So you mean they're not here, where they were found, and where they most certainly belong?"

When Spock explained that Starfleet was the only institution with resources capable of decoding the text, Uhura snorted, rather audibly, and said, "You do realise that you're within the walls of a world-renowned university right now, don't you?"

"I do realise this, yes," he'd said, unsure where this tread of conversation would lead. What set of circumstances could allow him to give a speech somewhere, without realising where he gave it? Was the young woman questioning his mental faculties? Accusing him of some sort of psychotic break?

"Okay, so you realise that, yet you claim only Star Fleet is capable of working with the Scrolls—suggesting that we are inferior?" Again, Uhura's gaze was unfaltering.

"In matters of technological advancement, I am doing more than suggesting this university is inferior. Rather, I am asserting so with great confidence," Spock corrected.

This statement elicited a gasp from the crowd.

"Nice of you to come out and say it," she said.

"I always endeavour to speak the truth."

Uhura crossed her arms over her chest and said—deflating, somewhat—that if those interpreting the texts were anything like Spock, they'd never make progress decoding the documents, especially if his translation of _Ho' je Jat_ was any indication of Starfleet's so-called superiority. Her tone didn't imply insult so much as genuine upset

What followed was what could only be called a 'tirade,' in which Uhura maligned Spock's entire body of work, Starfleet, and, if he understood correctly, 'typical Western arrogance.'

The audience stood and clapped. Professor Abram, who had introduced Spock, shrugged his shoulders apologetically.

"Perhaps this discussion is more suited to another venue," Spock said.

"Where? When? Tell me, and I'll be there, as the Federation has ignored pleas from the local government as well as petitions with hundreds of thousands of signatures. So you tell me, and I'll be there. But unless you plan to discuss the terms of the Scrolls' return, there's nothing left to say. Either you're thieves that will be held accountable, or you're thieves that won't be held accountable." Another round of claps.

At the time, Spock found the young woman to be impetuous, rude, brazen, and unprofessional, and he could not fathom why her heckling prompted applause.

Now, there is no question in his mind that he'd already fallen prey to the Engulfment.

Spock knows this now because as he gazes at his daughters, it is the very same feeling, wonderment, awe, fear, anxiety, overwhelming affection.

#

"Twins are lucky," Nyota had said. She smiled, and Spock's heart beat arrythmically for twelve point three seconds, before settling back to a steady pace.

"I do not see how the halving of a zygote into two distinct embryos, or alternatively, how the fertilisation of multiple eggs, would influence our lives more positively than the far more common occurrence of the fertilisation of a single egg," Spock said.

"Twice the cuddles, Spock. Twice the cuddles. That's how," said Nyota.

The 3D image of their offspring, rendered in perfect detail, showed follicles of hair, thick and straight at 24 weeks.

He was smitten, which was neither becoming nor acceptable. One woman in his life already troubled his logic. He did not need two more.

"Those are our babies," she said, finger dragging over the monitor. "It is a miracle. It is magic. It is science fiction. I do not understand it, and yet here they are."

Spock would not have put it in such terms, but shared the sentiment. "Indeed, adun'a."

#

He is useless. He cannot give his wife his blood. The other half of his heart is dying and he is hot, cold, tingling, burning, black, black, black, a pit.

#

The first time they were intimate, Spock buried his face into the crook of her neck, whispering: "Zarahk-tor na'nash-veh, Nyota." _Come for me, Nyota._ Literally— _break into pieces for me._

He lapped at the skin of her throat, hungry for her, and she ground herself senselessly into him, her uniform skirt hiked up, knickers still on.

"Taluhk-veh. E'tum-veh. Nuvan-veh," he said. _Precious one. Beautiful one. Trembling one_. "Do you know how much it gratifies me when I make you shudder thus?"

He slid two fingers inside her and she rode them, calling out Spock's name, begging for his touch, her come on his hands. When she climaxed a second time, he dropped to his knees, pulled the crotch of her underwear to the side and drank from her, licking her clitoris, pushing his tongue inside of her and fucking her with it. He wanted her to come in his mouth. When she nervously slid fingers into his hair, pressing his his head harder between her legs, his lok twitched with hungry neediness. Droplets of pre-come fell onto his thighs.

She mewled and rasped and rubbed into his tongue, and came, slumping back against the wall, breaths heaving.

He also loved to watch her. When she visited his flat, he instructed her to sit on the sofa, her legs splayed wide, and he observed from across the room in his chair. It was a testament to his control how long he lasted without grasping his erection when he watched her rub herself. First through her leggings, then through the cloth of her underwear, then naked, as she rubbed her clit in circles and told him how much she loved doing this for him. "Do you like that you can reduce me to this, Spock? You see how much I want you? So desperate for your touch I toy with myself in front of you, hoping you'll intervene?"

"Be quiet," he told her, voice cracked. He could not hold onto his control when she spoke thus.

They had not yet had intercourse, per his request. Spock did not trust himself to perform as gently as he wished to.

"Do you see how sticky my thighs are, Spock? I'm so wet for you," Nyota said.

When he still did not stand up from his chair, she crawled over to him, her t-shirt still on, but her ass and legs bare. She took his lok into her mouth and sucked him until he jut his hips in and out, five minutes later spurting his semen onto her lips.

Ten years ago now. He still wants her like he wanted her then. Always will. Of this he has no doubt. Should she die, he will never have another.

#

Captain Kirk, Doctor McCoy, and Lieutenant-Commander Marcus arrive when the twins are four days old. The Enterprise is docked on Alpha X-II for repairs, a two-day shuttle ride from New Vulcan.

T'Pau is not amused.

"An excess of stimulus will tire the infants," she says. "And any expenditure of energy not focused on their survival is energy wasted."

"Of course. We understand," says Kirk. It is not the response Spock expected, but he is grateful for it.

"I appreciate your presence here," Spock says. "However, I must return to my wife and daughters and am not available for extended repartee. Please accept my sincere gratitude that you are here. It is—very much noted."

He has not eaten. He has not slept.

T'Pau and Sarek corner him as he is about to enter the twins' room in the neonatal unit.

"My daughter-by-marriage and granddaughters are relying on their bond to you. It is through this link that you are able to siphon them some measure of strength. Eat. Sleep. So that you will be strong. Your strength is their strength."

"Your father's logic is sound," says T'Pau.

Spock does not sleep. More accurately—cannot. But he does eat. A bowl of fruit. A thick stew of pureed roots and verdure. He wants to vomit it up but refuses to, biting back the nausea and feeling of gagging in his throat.

#

Spock cannot find the message he wrote his komekh, but it is no matter. He remembers it.

_Dear Mother,_

_I wish your expertise on certain human customs when it comes to courting._

_I find the rules that govern these interactions to be very illogical, yet I endeavour to live by your motto, "When in Rome…" I am not in Rome. I am in San Francisco. It is my understanding, however, that the metaphor extends to any foreign locale one finds themselves in._

_The situation in question: A human woman and I have been 'seeing' each other (correct usage?) for 402 Standard days. Her communications with me have become increasingly sporadic and perfunctory over the last eleven days, however._

_Do you have any insight?_

_Spock_

* * *

_Spock,_

_Well—what happened twelve days ago?_

_Komekh_

* * *

_Dear Mother,_

_A very relevant question, and yet for some reason, I had not thought of it. Twelve days ago, I cancelled plans with her to visit ruins on the Eldar Moon so that I could meet with Samekh at the Embassy, knowing he would only be on Terra for 18 hours. I have changed plans before without adverse effects in the past, though, therefore I do not believe that is the cause of her reticence._

_Spock_

* * *

_And you told her you were meeting your father?_

* * *

_Dear Mother,_

_Yes, of course._

_Spock_

* * *

_And you invited her to come along with you to meet him, right?_

* * *

_Dear Mother,_

_I did not. I would not wish such a discomfiting experience upon her._

_Spock_

* * *

_My dear, clueless, son. Have you met her parents?_

* * *

_Dear Mother,_

_On multiple occasions, yes. They are very pleasant._

_Spock_

* * *

_*headdesk* SON._

* * *

_Dear Mother,_

_Am I to intuit that you are exasperated? I apologise for my ignorance in these matters._

_Spock_

* * *

_No. It's okay. Don't apologise, sweetie. Let me see if I can explain—_

_A year and a half is a long time to be with someone. She's introduced you to her parents. She's probably wondering why you haven't introduced her to us. Maybe she's put off asking about it because she assumed it was too difficult, Vulcan being so far away, but when you neglected an opportunity when Sarek was right their on Vulcan….well. Maybe she feels like you are hiding her or are embarrassed by her. Or that you don't take the relationship as seriously as she does._

* * *

_Dear Mother,_

_In fact, you have met her, and she you, though this was before we were in an exclusive relationship of a romantic nature. I do not believe that Nyota--yes, Komekh, Nyota Uhura--could ever be so illogical as to believe I am hiding her. She is an extraordinary person. Her intellect, creativity, drive, and compassion are unparalleled. She is admired by all._

_On the second point, I take our relationship very seriously. If she would have me, I would have her as my mate and the mother of my children._

_I do not see what this has to do with meeting Sarek._

_Spock_

* * *

#

Nyota is not yet awake, but Spock sits next to her. He resists the illogical urge to kiss her cheekbones.

Quiet little Amayel is in the crook of his left arm, Selik the right. They are both sleeping.

Selik snores loudly, more loudly than anything so small should have the right to. Surgery has eased her breathing somewhat, but it is still a struggle for her, her lungs a mess of fluid and phlegm.

Amayel whistles with each intake of air. Round lips. Her eyebrows look perplexed. Even asleep she is concentrating, solving a puzzle.

 _"_ Let me introduce you to your komekh," says Spock. "Can you feel her like a fierce desert wind in your mind?"

#

When Nyota awakes, Spock realises how close to endless, unshakable despair he had been. His daughters were a balm in those uncertain days, but his family is not complete without Adun'a. He is not complete without her. It is is an old, cliche sort of thing, but it does not bother him. No sentient being is meant to thrive without connection.

"I hope you are not alarmed that I named them without consulting you," says Spock. Nyota is holding Amayel, and crying, and kissing the little infant's indescribably perfect cheeks, as Spock himself has done numerous times, despite the illogic of it.

They had had other names picked out. Ranaka, shortened ralash-tanaf-kan, _child of music, and Rivku,_ shortened sahriv-kofu, _daughter of the storm._

"My Amayel and my Selik. I cannot imagine them called anything else."

Spock is illogically proud.

When the twins are one Standard month old, they, for the first time in their lives, leave the hospital. Spock and his family are staying in the guest house of Sarek's estate until they can work out a more permanent solution.

There are decisions to be made, but he cannot bother to make them, not when either of his two girls are in his arms.

Nyota stares at herself in the mirror as Spock attempts a joint feeding of Yel and Selik.

She pinches the pudge of loose skin and fat over her belly, runs her finger over the dark brown stretch marks.

"You are stunning thus," says Spock then lays the twins into their crib. T'Pau insists it is in bad form to let the children fall asleep during feedings, but he does it anyway, takes the bottles from their mouths as they drift to sleep.

"You think so?" Nyota asks.

"I do."

When she smiles, Spock is gratified.


	3. Zhu-tor Samekh Du Mafan (Papa Hears You Crying)

Nyota rubs coconut oil over Selik's hair as she unweaves each braid, loosening the strands that have matted together. Perhaps she will give in to Selik's request to have her hair cut into a mohawk like Punk Storm. There would certainly be fewer tangles and knots to deal with—and hair is such a small, insignificant thing. If cutting it makes Selik feel an ounce more in control and empowered, then isn't it worth it? Shave it bald, for all Nyota cares.

Selik lies still on the mattress as Nyota undoes her hair, lips trembling as she attempts to calm her mind. This has become their nightly routine. Hair and gentle meditation.

When Nyota is done, she braids the wild bundle of coils into a single, frumpy plat. Hair done, Nyota lifts up the hem of Selik's sleep tunic and massages the tense muscles of her back. "Is this okay, _S'yel'iki_?" she asks, using the un-contracted form of her daughter's name. Selik relaxes back into her mother's touch, tiny body curling into a ball.

Nyota's cool fingertips cause her to shiver, but after a second, Selik is able to regulate her internal temperature to accommodate, a skill both of the girls have only mastered in this last year. Before, whenever the temperature dropped at night, neither of them could warm themselves. Amayel would warm herself by cuddling into Xerxes' side out in the shed, and Selik would slip into Spock and Nyota's bed, neither of them noticing until they awoke to find her wedged between them, a thumb in her mouth.

"I know it is not particularly logical, but would you sing my song for me as you continue your ministrations?" Selik asks. "The one that you wrote when I was born?"

Nyota tilts her head at her daughter's request, hiding a sad, half smile. Spock wrote that song, just like he'd wrote Amayel's, but Selik always assumed Nyota had because even though the song is in Vulkhansu and specifically speaks of fatherhood, it is written to the tune of the English lullaby 'Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star.' Spock instructed Nyota not to correct Selik's assumption because he wished to be a model of logic, and the song had a certain sentimentality that was thoroughly _riolozhikaik._

He had been singing _Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star_ to Nyota the day she'd come to after her surgery, playing the tune lazily on his lute, fussing around with chords and variations and arpeggios, translating it into Vulkhansu and then Swahili, then Traditional Golic. He'd tinkered with the words so much until he'd composed an entirely new song for Selik, the original melody intact, however.

"I will sing it to you _only_ if you let your poor, tired mama climb into the bed with you," says Nyota, and Selik immediately repositions herself, sitting up so that her mother can climb behind her, and she can lean back into her chest.

Nyota nuzzles her face into the top of Selik's head, kisses her scalp, and starts by humming the tune for several measures before singing the words.

_Sarlah du nu'etek i_

_Sasarlahn s'yel'iki._

_Zhu-tor Samekh du mafan_

_Sarlah du vas-tor pi'kan_

_Sarlah du nu'etek i_

_Sasarlahn s'yel'iki_

(You come to us now

Emerging from the soul of a star

Papa hears you crying.

I come to rock you, wee child.

You come to us now

Emerging from the soul of a star)

When Selik's breathing calms into a steady in-and-out, Nyota climbs out the bed from behind her. She runs her index down her daughter's jutted-out vertebrae. She does not possess the same psionic nerves in her fingers as Spock, who tends to be much better at this calming technique, but it still seems to soothe Selik when Nyota does it.

"Would you like it if Xerxes slept inside with you tonight?" asks Nyota.

Selik's ear twitches, but she remains silent and her eyes remain shut.

"Baby girl, I know you're not asleep yet," says Nyota, unable to help the small smile that appears on her face seeing her daughter's attempt at feigned slumber.

"I am _not_ a baby," says Selik, eyes flashing open, and though she would deny it, there is most certainly an indignant pout on her face.

"I know, sweetheart."

"Nor am I a 'sweet heart,' as you put it. I am not sweet at all. I am like Storm. I am lightning."

"You are lightning, yes," says Nyota, and she doesn't have to struggle to parse through her daughter's magical thinking, because Nyota has had the exact same thoughts before, as an adult. _I don't want to be nice! I want to be a bullet! I want to be a phaser blast!_ Those were the exact words she'd uttered to Spock the year they first met when he'd arranged a meeting for her with General Martin. He'd told her that if she wished to secure the original Skeleton Scrolls for the USF she should endeavour to employ every nicety possible when speaking to the General.

"If you agree that I am lightning, then why am I not allowed to go on my _kahs-wan_ , Mama?"

Sighing, Nyota squeezes Selik's shoulder.

"I'm not arguing with you tonight, Selik. I'm not," says Nyota.

"I only asked a question."

"Uh huh," Nyota says but doesn't rise to the bait.

"Do you wish you had a different daughter than me?" Selik asks.

"No."

"Do you wish I was more like Amayel?"

"No."

Selik pulls her blanket over her shoulders and turns to face the wall. "Samekh does."

" _No._ "

"He does, Mama."

"Swee—Selik. No. You know that. It may feel that way right now because you're upset, but you know that's not true," Nyota says.

"Everyone else gets to go on their kahs-wan. When I melded with Amev, he—"

"Excuse me?"

"I said when I mel—" and then Selik is silent, realising her lack of discretion.

"You melded with someone, Selly?"

Nyota can see the wheels turning in her daughter's head, as she tries to come up with a lie that she can reason herself into believing is not a lie.

After a few seconds pause, Selik surprises Nyota by saying, "Please do not tell Samekh. Amev only wished to share with me what happened on his kahs-wan in an efficient manner, and so we joined minds during our recess period behind the _shi'oren_."

And what _else_ did her _seven_ year old daughter do with Amev during their recess period behind the shi'oren? Nyota takes a calming breath that doesn't really calm her at all, a sharp inhalation that ends up riling her up more. Biting her lip then closing her eyes, she folds her arms across her chest.

"You know better than this, _kidege._ Melding with someone is considered very intimate and not something you do just because you feel like it or if you're curious. It's not appropriate," says Nyota, stopping herself before it truly turns into a lecture.

"I know that in most instances it is not appropriate. However, Amev is my _sa-kugalsu_."

"Excuse me?" asks Nyota, again lost for words, and there's a curious nudge from Spock in the bond. He is deep in meditation, as he is most evenings these last several weeks. She sends him a reassuring ping, but she can tell he's ignoring it, rising back up to a more wakeful consciousness.

"Amev and I are engaged to be bonded," Selik explains. "He proposed to me after returning from his kah-swan. He said that it was a transformative experience and he was able to properly assess his values over the course of that ten days. Because we both appreciate comic books, animal biology, and table top roleplaying games with highly complex mechanics, we are well-suited as bondmates."

"Was that—was that his proposal? Like, is that how he did it? Is that what he said?" Nyota asks, the gossip in her briefly supplanting the mother.

"And I quote," says Selik. " _I experience a confusing paradox of sensations when around you: both an inner emotional peace and a highly excited sense of fascination. Given this, and our similar interests in comic books, animal biology, and table top roleplaying games with highly complex mechanics, I conclude that we are well-suited as bondmates. Would you consider me in this capacity, Selik, Daughter of Spock, of the House Surak?"_

Nyota is laughing and crying—all internally, of course. The boy is smooth. She'll give him that.

"Does anyone else know about this?" asks Nyota.

"Amayel, of course," says Selik. "She is supportive of my union with Arev."

Right, union. Okay. Lord Jesus. "Have you and Amev done…anything other than _kash-nohv_?" she asks hesitantly. "Kiss…or touch fingers? Or anything?" Nyota goes on.

Selik releases a heavy breath, her mouth slightly agape before she starts to speak. "Do not be alarmed, Mama, but I frequently give him half of the desert you pack me, as his komekh believes such nutritionally-deficient food items are illogical. Do you believe it is too soon in our engagement to share meals thus?"

Nyota grins widely. "No."

"Are you going to tell Samekh?"

Nyota shrugs because she truly doesn't know. It's the kind of thing Spock might totally overreact to—or something he might find properly _fascinating._

"I think Samekh has enough on his mind at the moment," says Nyota.

"Yes. Like ruining my life."

Nyota is too tired to engage with this topic anymore, so with a parting kiss to the top of Selik's head, she stands. As usual, she checks the settings on the envirostat to make sure she doesn't need to make any adjustments. Spock has already programmed the controls to accommodate Selik's lungs, as he does every day, multiple times a day.

"One last question, Mama," asks Selik.

Suppressing a sigh, Nyota turns toward her daughter's bed. "Yes?"

"What is the probability that Samekh will change his mind on this matter?"

Nyota thinks about lying to her daughter, but instead goes with the truth. "Less than 5%, _pi'yel_."

Selik's face falls into a visible frown before becoming unreadable again. Nyota flips off the main light and flicks on the glow light.

"I wish that I could be like Ororo and not have any parents," Selik whispers, voice further muffled by her pillow. Tucked under quilts and afghans, she looks so incredibly fragile. For once in her life, Nyota wishes she didn't have such incredible aural sensitivity.

How is that Selik, who's still so young that she spends all of her tiny credit allowance on comics and Storm figurines, who still has not lost all of her baby teeth and has a missing canine at this very moment, who has the slightest of difficulties pronouncing her R's—how is it that she, this tiny girl-child, could be so deeply unhappy?

Nyota remembers a book called _Makh-tor Yonal-kan_ ( _Parenting the Emotionally Volatile Child)_ , written twenty-six years ago by an acclaimed Vulcan child psychologist named Surev. She perished along with her wife, children, and grandchildren during Va'Pak, something Nyota learned after seeking out Selik's paediatrician for suggestions on how to improve Selik's behaviour. Healer S'Laron recommended that Nyota read _Makh-tor Yonal-kan_ because she'd known Surev personally back on Vulcan and had witnessed first-hand her intervention techniques in practise.

"All Vulcan adolescents have the potential to be emotionally volatile at various points in their young lives, as they do not have the experience necessary to rein in powerful emotions," Surev wrote. "Yet there remains a percentage of children whose lack of control extends beyond occasional emotional upset. Every minor frustration is an assault to their entire psyche. These _yonal-kan_ —fiery children—cannot reason through their more difficult feelings, and need extra guidance so they may navigate the path of Surak."

Nyota had read through the entire five hundred page text in a matter of hours two years ago, when Selik was five. Spock, Sarek, and even T'Pau, spent several hours each week teaching Selik various meditative techniques and coping mechanisms, and though it helped, she was still a—difficult child, certainly more difficult than Amayel.

Selik had made great strides in the last two years, but there was no soothing her sometimes.

Nyota closes Selik's door behind her and heads to the bedroom, not surprised to find Spock still meditating in the corner. When he goes as deep as he has been lately, it takes him up to fifteen minutes to rise to wakefulness.

#

As Nyota readies herself for bed, she lingers over the conversation about Amev and Selik's 'engagement.' She can't help but think of Spock's own spontaneous portrayal. _When I am with you I experience an illogical, unprecedented, and chemically overwhelming desire to join with so that we may be of one mind for eternity. Are you amenable, Nyota?_

That was a long time ago. Nyota knows she's no longer the woman her husband married. But that's the nature of things—she is stronger now than she once was. What doesn't kill you, etc etc. Lungs expand. Bones reinforce. Hemoglobin de-concentrates. She has survived more than most and it shows.

Her body has evolved into a new thing entirely; ass rounder, thighs thicker. Increased muscle mass accounts for the bulk of the changes, but there's no denying her metabolism clings to fat on New Vulcan in a way it never did on Earth or on the Enterprise. Her curves have softened and become more rounded over the years, and though Spock is quite capable carrying her as he once did, he no longer does, no longer wishes to. Years ago, she stopped straightening her hair, the strands a messy mix of curls, kinks, waves, the strands unable to decide on a texture. She is not beautiful to him anymore, and she has too much laundry to do to care, honestly.

And her? If anything, she has it worse for him now. Nyota's love is a network of rivers; flowing this way then changing course, pooling here, emptying out there, foamy, white, icy and dangerous. Any semblance of calm, quiet affection is an illusion of her own making. In truth, her love is turbulent.

#

"You are upset," Spock says, walking in on Nyota in the bathroom as she brushes her hair.

"Of course, I'm upset, Spock. Our child's in pain. Can't you see how much she's hurting?" Nyota asks, pulling the brush roughly through tangles, a wad of hair coming out. "Fuck it," she says, and tosses the brush onto the counter. She turns on the facet and splashes water onto her face.

"You blame me for her emotional distress."

"No—that's _not_ what I said." Nyota's not really ready to have this conversation, so instead she thinks about what she needs to do tomorrow: go over T'Ona's calculations to improve subspace communication range with compressed radio wave messages then actually redesign the comm relay so communiques don't get bottlenecked—that would take four hours at least, half her day.

"Perhaps you did not say you blamed me aloud, but I am not unobservant. Your actions suggest you believe I am being unfair."

_I am not unobservant._

Nyota doesn't miss the fact that Spock's words mirror the one's Selik used at bedtime exactly. If Spock notices the peculiar similarity, he reveals nothing of it on his face. He and Selik are so much alike.

"During our previous discussions, you agreed to trust my judgment in this matter, did you not?" says Spock.

"Well, maybe I've changed my mind. She's hurting. I don't know. Are you sure you're making the right decision by holding her back like this?" she asks. It would be a lie to say she's not just as worried as Spock, but at some point, they have to let Selik test her boundaries.

"Perhaps you are thinking that Kahr-lan Maresh would allow his daughter to attend her kah-swan?"

The fuck?

"What?"

"This afternoon, after your meal with Maresh, you spoke candidly about how much you and Selik enjoyed your time together. "

Nyota's not even remotely sure where this conversations going. "Yeah…? And? Like, what are you even talking about right now?"

"I believe the Standard expression is that you were 'glowing.' You are taken with him."

Nyota shakes her head and tries to still the contortions surely going on on her face right now.

"You spend a significant portion of your time with him," says Spock.

"He's my superior," Nyota says.

"As I once was?" he asks.

Nyota moves past him out of the bathroom toward their bed, pulling off her t-shirt and her trousers so she's in just her underwear and bra. Flipping off the lantern by the bedside table, she crawls under the covers.

"You would ignore me like this?" asks Spock.

"It seems I would," Nyota says, eyes rolling. She is so past done.

"You are being illogical, adun'a."

Nyota puffs up her pillow, lies back.

"You are deliberately disengaging from this conversation," Spock says.

So observant, Spock.

"After I departed from your company to meditate, I noticed you experienced feelings of shock when speaking with Selik. I desire to know what you discovered or what she said that alarmed you so."

Nyota relaxes into the mattress, presses her nose into the sheets. They smell like Spock. So good. She squeezes her thighs together and rolls to face away from him.

"I don't want to talk about this right now," she says.

"Is there anything you do wish to speak of?"

Whether or not he still desires her, loves her. _Likes_ her. These days, every word out of his mouth is a criticism, or an accusation that she's being 'illogical.'

"Not really, Spock."

She thinks she hears him sigh, but she can't be sure. He removes his shirt and slides next to her in the bed, far away from her on the king-sized mattress.

Was she _that_ repulsive to him?

"Nyota, you are crying," says Spock.

"I'm not," she counters, even as she wipes the tear from her cheek using the fabric of the pillowcase.

"Nyota."

"I'm fine. Just tired."

"Crying is not one of your typical reactions to fatigue," he says, "which suggests you are being untruthful."

Nyota sits up and swings her legs onto the floor, stands. "Do you feel that?" she asks, and places her hand against her chest.

Spock sits up abruptly. "Yes."

He opens their bedroom door and jogs into the hallway toward the girls' room, without bothering to put on his shirt. "Selik?" he calls. " _S'yel'ki_ , are you all right, daughter of mine? Selik."

Nyota goes after him, grabs the backup inhaler they keep in a chest of drawers in the corridor. They are careful about refilling the one she keeps in her bedside table, but she frequently loses it.

Spock doesn't knock before twisting the knob of the door open to Selik and Amayel's bedroom.

"She is not here," he says, slipping past Nyota. She scurries after him in the hallway, toward the side door that leads to the shed where Xerxes usually sleeps.

"Spock," Nyota says. Her voice cracks.

Spock opens the door of the shed to find Xerxes gone.

"Selik!" he calls, looking out past the fence that surrounds their property.

"Where is she?" Nyota asks, like he could possibly know.

Spock heaves breaths, panting, but stands mostly still as he probes the bond.

"Far," he says. "I cannot hone in precisely, as she is intentionally distancing herself."

 _Good._ Good in that it meant she wasn't taken.

Tears that were falling modestly before unleash themselves in a torrent now, and Nyota struggles to catch her breath—experiencing the breathing attack secondhand through Selik.

Spock comes to her, helps her to sit on the garden bench. He is much better at separating his mind from their daughter's so as not to vicariously live through her every episode. "I'm fine, Spock. Go find her. Go find my baby," she says.

"Nyota," he says, his voice tremoring as he kneels in front of her on the ground.

"Go. I'm fine."

He nods his head takes off, running at a speed that leaves Nyota breathless just watching.


	4. Kadiith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bonus snippet since we have not had a chance yet to see Amayel on the page.

Spock's initial attempts to style Amayel's hair produce results so far out of line with his intentions that he is forced to endure a not insignificant existential crisis.

What sort of father is he that he cannot comb his child's hair into two aesthetically pleasing 'poofs' as Nyota has done on countless occasions? The articles he has read have not prepared him for the reality, and he feels shame that he has turned Yel's curls into a strange, asymmetrical mess. He'd broken no fewer than three combs and six elastics. Selik had been wise to deny his requests to style her hair. He'd overheard her say to Nyota, _I would sooner let Xerxes do my hair than Samekh._

Next to him sits a Denman brush, some contraption known as a "Tangle Teezer," whipped shea butter, and a spray bottle filled with a mixture of water and aloe vera juice. The objects—illogical though it may be—seem to mock him purposefully.

Through their bond, Spock feels Ama's increasing curiosity. She has done a commendable job of sitting still for the duration of an hour and a half, but her patience is growing thin, and she wishes to go outside to run experiments using the new app on her tricorder. Since her fifth birthday two months ago, when she'd received the device, she'd conducted much research on New Vulcan amphibious life and wished to do more. For science.

"Are you all finished, Samekh?" she signs, reaching up her hands so that he can see her gesticulations.

"Indeed, Kofu," he says out loud, and squeezes her shoulder because he know that she cannot hear his words.

"Then I will seek out a mirror to examine your handiwork," she says after standing, her hand movements fluid but precise.

Spock follows her as she heads to the washroom. Her walk begins in a very dignified fashion, tiny little hands clasped behind her tiny little back. After a few moments, however, she is unable to manage the pretense, and Yel goes at a sprint through the hall. Her stride is short enough that Spock manages to keep up whilst still walking.

Ama grabs the stool and pulls it to the sink in the washroom, climbing on top with a slight huff of breath. Upon seeing her reflection, her left eyebrow arches up quite dramatically.

"Samekh, I am afraid you have failed drastically in this endeavour," she signs, brow furrowed in deep consternation. Her cheeks, still chubby from baby fat, inflate even more as she pouts. "However, I acknowledge that you clearly made an attempt." She says this, no doubt, in deference to Nyota's recent efforts to teach her how to be more polite.

Nyota joins them in the washroom several seconds later, and he can tell that she's trying not to laugh. Little Yel is sometimes very sensitive about her appearance, though she is, of course, like Selik and Nyota, gorgeous.

"Komekh, fix it. Fix it, please," says Amayel, a note of desperation in her finger movements.

"Of course, baby," says Nyota.

In thirteen minutes, nine seconds, his wife has Ama's hair done in two very neat "French" braids. Spock watches the whole time, taking mental notes so that he can do better in the future. Tonight, when his aduna and kofu-lar sleep, he'll look up some programs to download off HoloTube so that he can have more hands-on practise.

"Don't wander beyond the front gate," Nyota says, as Ama slides off the sofa and rushes to grab her tricorder before going outside.

"Kadiith," signs Ama, which means, _what is, is_. His daughter uses it to mean something much closer to the Standard expression, 'whatever.'

Once she's outside, Spock places a kiss on Nyota's forehead. "Do you think Amayel finds me incompetent now?"

Laughing, Nyota tugs him closer, fingers stroking his ears as she looks up at him. "Don't worry. You'll be her perfect, infallible father again by tomorrow, and she'll have forgotten all about this—mishap."

"And yet she has an eidetic memory. I doubt she will ever forget at all." He senses that Nyota does not share his distress, and in fact, is rather amused.

"Kadiith," says Nyota, mirroring his daughter's usage. She shrugs and bites back a smile, breaking their embrace.

Trying not to sigh, he follows his wife into the kitchen so they might prepare supper together. Kadiith, indeed.


	5. A House Divided

It is 1:08am when T'Pau's comm notifies her of an incoming call. She swallows the remaining portion of her tea, flicks on the kettle to heat more water, then retrieves the receiver. Given the hour and the fact that this is her personal line, T'Pau expects to see Sarek, Spock, or another familial relation on the caller identification. The number, however, is not one that she recognises. Fourteen numerical digits. Nine Roman letters. The call is coming from off-world via subspace.

Once seated in the lounge, T'Pau presses the answer button and waits for the person at the other end of the line to inform her why they are calling.

2.1 seconds pass.

3.3.

3.7.

After 3.9 seconds, the caller, a woman, finally decides to speak: "Hello?" she says.

T'Pau knows that she is expected to repeat ' _hello'_ back, but to do so would be illogical and so she will not. Instead, she says nothing and waits for the woman to state her business.

"Hello? Is anybody there?" the caller asks.

Of course, someone is 'there.' Were no one 'there,' the call would not have connected. For the 1,831st time since meeting Amanda, and for the 97th time since meeting Nyota, T'Pau notes with some satisfaction that her son and grandson located the only two logical humans in existence.

On numerous occasions, Amanda and Nyota proved more logical than their respective husbands. Emotional, but logical.

Over the course of her life, T'Pau has come to the conclusion that despite the arbitrary nature of gender, men—and especially the men of Surak's clan—often cling toward an illogical stubbornness when it comes to certain matters, usually those involving relationships. If Spock's visit earlier today proved anything, it was that.

He'd come by in order to ask that T'Pau care for Selik for the remainder of the week beginning tomorrow. Tonight, he planned to inform her that she would not be allowed to attend her kahs-wan. He predicted that this news would cause emotional upset and that it would therefore be beneficial and quite logical for Selik to spend some time in the company of her great grandmother, since T'Pau would provide the child a much needed sense of calm.

Accustomed to the tendency of all of her male kinsmen to distort logic to suit their own emotional desires, T'Pau is able to listen to Spock's 'reasoning' without snorting. _Beneficial,_ he'd said. _Quite logical._

"To clarify," said T'Pau, once her grandson had given his explanation, "you wish to avoid the repercussions of your decision regarding the kah-swan by keeping Selik here with me. Correct?"

Spock blinked. "I would not have put it in such terms."

"I am sure you would not have, son of my son," said T'Pau, examining her grandson's face for minute expressions, finding none. "But yes, your proposal is agreeable. I will arrive tomorrow at 9:15 to pick Selik up. She will remain here as she navigates her emotional response."

As much as T'Pau disagreed with Spock's decision to disallow Selik her rite-of-passage, she could not fault his logic completely. Often times, there were two paths that were an equal amount logical and illogical. Selik survived two drug-resistant infections this past year that had severely weakened her lungs. Though she had significantly recovered, her constant health concerns were a reality that could not be ignored. Unfortunate, but, _kadiith_.

Spock's ploy to bring Selik here to avoid emotional fallout was ridiculously transparent, but T'Pau would not deny the prospect of spending a full week in the company of her _pi'sahrev_ , her little storm. Children frequently did better finding the Path of Surak when they had opportunities to be independent of their parents. So, indeed, there was some logic to his decision.

What struck T'Pau as stubbornly _illogical_ during her conversation with Spock had nothing to do with Selik, but with his refusal to acknowledge reality in other domestic matters—chiefly, the matter of Nyota. When T'Pau inquired after her emotional state, he'd said, "She is performing her duties as a Starfleet officer, a mother, and a wife satisfactorily."

T'Pau acknowledged passing feelings of incredulity, scepticism, disbelief, that he would answer her question thus. T'Pau did not 'gesture.' T'Pau did not 'emote.' She was too old for such immature displays, yet in that moment she empathised with Selik's tendency to roll her eyes. "I did not ask whether Nyota was performing her various duties satisfactorily," she said. "I asked after her general state. When last I saw her, she displayed several Human markers of duress."

Spock's eyes flitted away from T'Pau's, and he went to the kitchen to pour himself a cup of water from the carafe. "I know not of what you speak," he said.

"I speak of the one who is your bonded." Nyota was T'Pau's kin as much as Sarek, Spock, Selik, and Amayel were, as much as Amanda had been, and still was, her _katra_ gone but never gone.

"This year has presented our family with a number of obstacles. Numerous hospital visits for Selik. Amayel's withdrawal at school," he said, pausing. "It is expected that Nyota would experience negative feelings and a reduction in emotional well-being."

"As her _adun_ it is your responsibility to help heal her wounds, as she heals yours," said T'Pau, unable to determine whether Spock was deliberately evading or being obtuse.

"I understand my responsibilities as Nyota's husband," said Spock, his voice steady. His control these last six months was perfection, something T'Pau found alarming. Perfect Control outside of _kolinahr_ was impossible, and a sign of impending emotional eruption. She had seen this before in her grandson. The pressure to be more Vulcan than any Vulcan, to master all emotions, to excel academically and professionally, caused him to repress and collar off what needed to be acknowledged and dealt with. Emotions were to be managed. Not quarantined.

"You inform me that you understand your responsibilities as husband, yet you let your bondmate anguish so? I thought more of the son of my son," said T'Pau.

She turned away to conceal the judgment that surely passed over her face. She lifted the ceramic pitcher from the counter and began to water the plants in the lounge. They were Terran in origin. Amanda had picked them out. T'Pau had them relocated from Earth's Embassy to here.

"You should not speak of things you know nothing about," said Spock.

T'Pau set the pitcher on a wooden shelf, perhaps with more force than required.

"You speak to your clan matriarch thus?"

"Honoured Grandmother—I did not intend—"

"Your intent is of no concern to me," said T'Pau.

Spock conceded. "I will make efforts to address you with the respect and veneration you deserve, Honoured Grandmother."

"Indeed." T'Pau resumed the business of watering her plants. "You will take your leave now. Before you depart, I remind you that in the matter of Nyota, you are parted and never parted. When you deliberately shield yourself from her, you disrupt nature's course."

She watched the son of her son for a reaction, however small it might be, and was rewarded with a slight relaxation of the shoulders.

"Nyota is psychically quite powerful," he admitted.

"Indeed," said T'Pau.

"Though I have taught her to shield her empathic connections, she frequently does not desire to do so."

T'Pau was curious where this conversation would lead. Spock was not one to speak in a round-about fashion when one could be direct, so she trusted each piece of information was necessary.

"Lately, I have found my own emotions unexpectedly turbulent. I have meditated with increased frequency, but still, they are there. I would not wish my wife to experience them so acutely," said Spock.

There was more to this, T'Pau sensed, but Spock was already nodding and turning to make his leave.

T'Pau had meditated on the conversation after his departure, then spent the better part of the afternoon and evening readying her home for her great-granddaughter. Servants prepared Amayel and Selik's quarters, went to the market to buy the foods Selik most preferred, went to the archives herself to find suitable music for Selik to play on her lute, and bought her the latest issue in the X-Men comic series, which, of course, Selik would already have, but she was meticulous with the care of her comic books and rarely took them out the house. She would appreciate having another physical copy to read at T'Pau's.

Once she'd sufficiently prepared for Selik's arrival, T'Pau retired. She'd just finished her night-time cup of tea and was ready to meditate when the _hello_ lady called.

Now, T'Pau waits for the woman to get to the point.

"State your business," T'Pau says. She is tired and impatient. She has not slept in forty hours. In addition to dealing with family matters, she'd stayed up all evening last night judging the matter of a V'tosh Ka'tur who wished to reclaim custody of a distant young cousin, fifteen years old. The boy had lost all relations during _Va'Pak_ , and his adoptive guardian had recently died, as well. The Vulcan without logic, named Fer'at, lived off planet but was willing to relocate to New Vulcan to care for the orphaned child.

It had taken 7.8 hours for the various contingents to present their cases regarding the fate of the boy, and eventually, after much deliberation, T'Pau had decided to award Fer'at probationary custody for a period of six months.

"Is this, um, Tee-paw? Tee-paw-oo? Tee-po?" the woman asks in Standard.

"No, it is not. There is no one here by the name _Tee-paw tee-paw-oo tee-po_." T'Pau disconnects the call, only for it to ring again 8.9 seconds later when she is pouring water over tea leaves to steep. Again, she presses the answer button, and _again_ , the caller says nothing for several seconds. Why is this person calling if they have nothing to say?

"Speak," says T'Pau. Sometimes non-Vulcans, humans especially, needed to be prodded along.

"Oh, hello again," the woman says. "I'm calling for a lady with a name spelled T-P-A-U."

"I am she," says T'Pau.

"Okay. Good. This is Jenna Briggs."

T'Pau waits for Jenna Briggs to continue, but she does not.

"Are you still there?" Jenna Briggs asks.

"Indeed." Where would T'Pau have gone? She is not prone to disappearing into the ether.

"Oh, good, thought I'd lost you there for a second. I'm calling in regards to Amayel?"

T'Pau does not understand why this woman phrases everything as a question. Either she is calling in regard to Amayel, or she is not.

"You may proceed," says T'Pau.

"You're listed as one of the emergency contacts. I first tried to get in touch with Mr. and Mrs., umm, Say-shin, um,Ta-gay, Ta-jee?—"

"Cease attempting to pronounce _S'chnn T'gai_ ," says T'Pau.

"Right, sorry. So, we tried to get in touch with Amayel's parents but were unable to after several attempts."

Unusual. Nyota is likely sleeping given the time, but Spock is typically awake at this hour. Even if he had been slumbering, he would have heard the notification sound on the communicator.

T'Pau closes her eyes and investigates her familial bonds for any sign of trouble. Spock's mind is, as usual, completely walled off. Nyota is distant, but with some effort at concentration, T'Pau senses a vague hum of distress. Selik is—

"I'm afraid there's been an incident," Jenna Briggs says, then another pause.

This woman needs constant nudging. "Please, elaborate," says T'Pau, though it is quite obvious Jenna Briggs should do so without explicit verbal instruction.

"I'm sorry to say that after a little accident, Amayel fractured her arm."

T'Pau opens her eyes, pulling herself out of the minor trance she'd used to find her kin in the bond, and focuses on Jenna Briggs. "Continue."

"We took her to see the doctor on staff here straight away, but Amayel said repeatedly that it would be more logical for her to go home. She refused to get in the bio-bed or even go near a tricorder."

T'Pau rings the bell to call her aide to the lounge, sensing she would be needed soon. After several seconds, Simar, T'Pau's _mamut_ , enters the sitting area to await instruction. She is near in age to T'Pau and has served the family for many years. She completes all her duties efficiently and expertly and is agreeable company. Her logic is always sound, and her mind is sharp.

"How did Amayel come to sustain fractures to her arm?" T'Pau asks, her hand held up to Simar so that she knows to wait here.

Though quiet and generally gentle in nature, Amayel's curiosity frequently got the better of her. It is not out of the realm of reason that she'd wanted to test one of her many inventions outside, and had lost body self-awareness in her excitement and slipped, as young beings were apt to do.

"That is actually the main reason why I'm calling," says Jenna. T'Pau notes the hesitation in her voice. "It has come to my attention that some of the other children have been bullying Amayel a bit because of her hearing?"

Again, with the question-tone.

"Define 'bullying'," says T'Pau. "I am not familiar with this jargon."

"Well," says the woman, "taking and hiding her things. Calling her names."

"So then 'bullying' is another word for 'harassing' and 'abusing?" T'Pau asks, wishing to clarify.

"I suppose you could say that in this case."

"And were her parents notified that this was occurring?"

"The instructors here were unaware it was happening until this most recent event. Amayel didn't tell anyone what was going on, or of course we would've intervened and called her parents."

T'Pau had been right to be sceptical of this so-called 'camp.' The level of incompetence required to allow such treatment to continue unaware is unfathomable, even considering how many humans were involved.

"Who is it that broke her arm, and are they being appropriately held accountable?" T'Pau asks.

"Nobody in particular broke it per se. It seems that a group of the children took her hearing aid while she slept and messed with the settings when they were playing with it. As far as I can tell, it was completely an accident. When they returned the device, the calibration was slightly off, and and there was ringing and vertigo that disrupted Amayel's depth perception, causing her to misjudge a step and fall down a set of stairs. I am so sorr—"

"I would speak with Amayel now. You may wake her if she is sleeping. It is no matter. I require you to connect a video feed so that I may sign with her and review her condition. Go."

"Of course," the woman says. There is silence as she goes to complete the task.

T'Pau, of course, will need the names of all the children involved, as well as their parents' names, the names of the directors of the camp. They certainly will not be allowed to continue operating after this session. The Young Xenonaturalist's Camp was located on a Terran colony in the Omega C star system, and like most Federation organizations, involved mostly humans, with a sprinkling of other species. The camp involved a three week stay in a research outpost, where young people conducted "expeditions." T'Pau approved of the course of activities in theory, but the people in charge were obviously inept and Amayel would never be returning. Frequently, what humans consider prestigious—and the Young Xenonaturalist's Camp _is_ considered such—does not meet the most basic requirements: that of insuring the safety of the young people involved.

"Simar," T'Pau tells her aid. "Please make arrangements for me to travel to Omega C-2. Send Zhi'rev and S'harien to the home of mine grandson and granddaughter by marriage to ascertain the state of affairs."

"Yes, _Dorli Pid-kom,_ " says Simar and nods. "Shall I send someone to alert Sarek?"

"Sarek is currently off-planet negotiating trade terms. This matter will only distract him. However, do leave him a message to get in touch with me tomorrow."

"Yes, Honored Matriarch," Simar says, and hurries off to make the arrangements.

Twelve seconds later, the subspace video feed connects and Amayel appears on screen. She is wearing her night clothes, a buttoned shirt that hangs past her knees and a pair of mismatched knee socks, one blue and the other black, and a sling to stabilise her arm. Her hair is both unbound and uncombed, large and poofy, making her narrow face look that much more miniature in appearance. Her face reveals nothing of her state, but she is trembling as if cold.

Of the twins, it is Selik who has always been the smaller one. Now, Amayel is competing for the status. She has visibly thinned since T'Pau last saw her.

"What is your condition, _pi'veh_?"

"I have three fractures in my right forearm and wrist, which is currently being stabilised with a splint." She signs with one hand, but is still perfectly understandable.

"Are you in pain?" asks T'Pau.

"Moderate pain," Amayel signs.

"I will be there to retrieve you in approximately an hour. I cannot say how long it will take more precisely as I am not aware of the transport schedules."

"That is not necessary, Komekh-kel. Such last minute transport is expensive. I am not certain of your logic."

"My logic is sound. I must disconnect now. Use your PADD to reach me on my personal port-comm if you need me."

"Komekh-kel—"

"It is decided, _pi'veh._ I am coming."

"Yes, Honoured Great-Grandmother."

Simar finishes the arrangements, gathering the appropriate parties. Her _suyu,_ travel staff, will include four _klashausu-lar_ , to secure her safety and defend her from any attempts to assault her person, two _gol'nevsu-sar_ , so that one attendant could stay near to her constantly and so that one could run errands and fetch items, and of course, Simar, her personal aide. Finally, the family's on call _hassu_ , who would come in order to remedy Amayel's fractures immediately.

The trip carries out without event, without conversation, without hiccup or hesitation. The small shuttles housed at the Ministry are Warp-6 capable, unheard of in such small ships—unheard of to off-worlders. Simar easily secures one for T'Pau's private use this evening. The navigator pilots the ship to Omega C-2 in thirty-nine minutes and twelve seconds.

When they enter the colony's air space, ground control hails them.

T'Pau takes the navigator's seat at the helm and opens the feed.

"We will land now," says T'Pau, deigning to speak Standard, though she does not find the language adequately detailed.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am, but you don't have the authorisation to come to ground here," says a young human male with pale skin and fair-colored hair.

"You will find updated records stating the contrary if you do your job as specified and actually look," T'Pau says. "I will land now." She ends the transmission and returns to her seat.

As the shuttle passes through atmosphere headed downward toward the outpost, a subspace message comes in from S'harien. The communications officer interprets the data, translates it to text, and uploads the message to T'Pau's PADD.

_Update regarding the estate of the son of your son [STOP]_

_Nyota mildly affected by the bonded experience of Selik's respiratory distress [STOP]._

_Healer on the way [STOP]._

_Selik gone and experiencing significant lung incapacitation [STOP]._

_Spock retrieving her [STOP]._

Selik had taken Spock's declaration even less well than expected. Like Spock had done all those years ago, she'd left to attempt her _kahs-wan_ without notifying anyone.

T'Pau inhales and calculates digits of pi, picking up at the three-quadrillion decial place, where she last left off.

"Attend," says T'Pau, once they shuttle makes contact with the ground.

Her four personal guards stand up and flank her, two on either side. Her personal attendants stand a foot behind her, and Simar stands slightly behind her and to the right—typical of the bonded position.

They descend the steps of the shuttle, the planet dark, greeted by four human persons in 'khaki,' looking thoroughly bedraggled and unworthy of caring for T'Pau's great granddaughter. Despicable.

Despite wearing her full head cover and formal robes, which are thick and multilayered, T'Pau feels cold. No wonder Amayel had appeared to lose weight. She'd probably devoted a significant portion of her energy to maintaining her core temperature. Not acceptable.

"Show me to my great-granddaughter," says T'Pau, when the humans fail to direct her accordingly.

They are ridiculously inefficient in their movements, stumbling over every step. They seem to be attempting to speak, yet all that comes out are incoherent stutters.

"Tee-po?" says the woman that T'Pau identifies as Jenna Briggs, going by her voice. She has thin, light brown hair, a round face, and wears a 'Polo' shirt. Terran fashion, as usual, fails to impress T'Pau.

"My name is Lady T'Pau, Daughter of Satok, Matriarch of the House of Surak, and you will address me such," says T'Pau.

"Of course," says Jenna Briggs, voice shaking and uncertain. "We didn't expect you until tomorrow morning."

"I would not leave Amayel in your care for another minute, let alone another several hours," says T'Pau.

A man who is dressed differently than the others, wearing proper grey trousers and a black shirt, walks toward T'Pau, but one of her guards steps in the way. "You will not approach Lady T'Pau," he says.

"Whoa there," says the man, holding up his hands. "I am Alan Shaw, and I'm the Senior Residential Counselor, here to address any concerns you might have."

T'Pau looks at him for four seconds, assessing. "You cannot address my concerns," she says. "I will speak with the person in charge of this program tomorrow at 7:00am by Vulcan reckoning. They should avail themselves with lawyers and other counsel if he wishes. I plan for nothing less than the dissolution of the Young Xenonaturalist's Camp. I will gather the Vulcan Council to leverage charges against you for reckless endangerment and negligence. Now, however, you will bring my great-granddaughter to me. You are dismissed, Alan Shaw, Senior Residential Counselor."

With the news from S'harien about Nyota, Selik, and Spock, the need for expediency is even more pressing. She must return to New Vulcan and regulate.

One minute and twelve seconds pass and Amayel is still not there.

T'Pau instructs one of her attendants to locate Amayel and carry her out to the shuttle. "Alan Shaw, Senior Residental Counselor, direct mine attendant to the daughter of the son of my son."

In less than twenty seconds, the attendant returns with Amayel in his arms, Alan Shaw carrying her luggage.

" _Komekh-kel_ ," says Amayel, wiggling out of the attendants grasp despite her arm. She walks in quick, measured strides toward T'Pau, dodging the four guards, stopping when she is one foot before her great grandmother. Her head tilts up. "Your presence is agreeable," signs Amayel, "but unnecessary. My condition is acceptable." Her hand movements are excited and uncharacteristically demonstrative.

"It is not unnecessary," T'Pau signs back, and presses her hand to Amayel's back to guide her up the ramp to the shuttle. "We will return to New Vulcan now."

The _hassu_ attends to Amayel's bone once they're secured inside. The osteo-stimulator will repatch and set the bones, but the arm still needs to be stabilised with a splint.

"Honoured Great-Grandmother, I have much to tell you regarding my discoveries on this planetoid, if you are amenable," she signs, having trouble using only the one hand, but managing.

"I am amenable," signs T'Pau, as Amayel begins to discuss her findings, as well as describe the tricorder she reprogrammed to detect microscopic lifeforms specific to Omega C-2. From what T'Pau can glean from Amayel's ramblings, the child spent most of her time during the program alone.

"Amayel, I wish to see inside your mind," says T'Pau.

"Right now?"

"Only if you would wish it. If you do not wish it, it is no matter," T'Pau tells her great-granddaughter.

Simar pours Amayel a cup of cactus fruit juice from the shuttle's stores and hands it to her, along with a dense, fatty soup made of pureed root vegetables and nuts, spices, and _kov-sayas_ milk. She does all of this without T'Pau explicitly command her to, and though T'Pau is tempted to raise an eyebrow, she refrains, used to her aide's often presumptuous behaviour. It is not disagreeable.

"Eat this, child, you are wane," says Simar.

Amayel has no issue devouring her juice and spiced chowder. It is clear she wishes to request more, but does not. Simar, however, is already fixing her another portion.

"I would have you in my mind now, Honoured Great-Grandmother," says Amayel after she finishes her third bowl of soup and second cup of juice.

T'Pau sits Amayel on her lap and initiates telepathic contact with a gentle brush of the hands to her palm, keeping her mental touch light and non-intrusive.

She feels, through Amayel, humiliation, shame, frustration, worry, sadness, excitement to be with T'Pau and going home, anxiousness. The amount and intensity of Amayel's emotions should have tipped Spock or Nyota off to Amayel's condition at the program, but it is clear that just like her father, the little girl has put up significant mental walls to shield herself from that empathic and telepathic connection. Not only had she expended significant energy keeping herself warm, without eating enough to support the effort; she had spent much energy keeping her experiences hidden from her parents.

Amayel is a powerful, powerful telepath, especially given her age. It is disheartening that she would use her skills to withdraw in such a manner.

T'Pau stops her investigation of Amayel's young mind.

"I did not wish to burden them," says Amayel, responding to the question that T'Pau had not yet asked. She could do that—sense thoughts even without touch.

"Your actions were foolish, _pi'veh_."

Amayel does not respond to the admonishment, instead taking a final sip of her cactus fruit juice. She lays her head back onto T'Pau's chest. "I would sleep now," she says.

T'Pau cradles the child in her arms as the shuttle makes the short journey back to New Vulcan.

Her house is much out of order. That would not do.


	6. 4.283 Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see Spock's Amazon reviews.

  _i._

_1,128 of 1,161 beings found this review helpful._

**_****/*_ **

_(Note that the above image suggests I have given this item a 4 out of 5 star rating; however, in actuality, I award this 'toy' 4.28311 stars. Detailed statistical analysis of my rating is available for those who wish to see it. My wife gave this toy "ten stars", even though I explained several times that that rating did not conform to the 5-star parameter inherent to the system)._

This is a review of _NebuCore's_ Body Alive Kit, model 320-X, which I purchased as an enrichment activity for my six year old daughters, who are of Vulcan and human ancestry, but are primarily Vulcan in phenotype. I mention this seemingly irrelevant biological detail because the toy was created by humans for humans, and I was skeptical how well it would suit a more Vulcan learning-style (primarily self-paced with no guide or teacher. All Vulcan toys are self-correcting, even those that are open-ended).

These concerns were not justified, as the toy has served them appropriately.

The Body Alive is a generic model of the interior of humanoid bodies, covering the torso area (heart, kidneys, liver, digestive organs, lungs, pancreas) and the brain. The parts can be moved to mimic the exact systems of various species. The child may then program functions into the toy via a PADD, and the model begins to behave in the fashion of a working body. The body simulates all abled functions as well as disabled functions (diseases, congenital malformations, etc).

My wife worried that the toy would be morbid and "gory" due to its highly detailed design, and insisted I purchase a different toy for our daughters. She was pleasantly surprised to find that, in person, the toy is not at all discomfiting.

She—as she does with all toys we purchase—programmed communication software into the device to alert her when there was any sort of system error or potential danger, such as short circuiting. She noted to me that the code underlying Body Alive was very elegant and therefore easy to alter to tailor the systems for our daughters' use. Though I have not personally tested the truth of her observations, I do not doubt the veracity of her claims. Her work in communications and systems engineering, specifically, cybernetics, is unparalleled and has won her many accolades, grants, and awards.

I bought this toy for my daughters to encourage their curiosity in the life sciences, primarily biology and chemistry. They are voracious learners, and memorize data well, but they have been less intrigued by biology and chemistry because it is frequently less applicable than what they are learning in physics.

In this regard, they take heavily after their mother, in that they tend to appreciate applied, practical sciences. I, too, lean in this direction, but having been the science officer of a starship and as someone who is frequently in contact with unfamiliar beings and environments, I have also learned the value of the life sciences.

My eldest daughter (by 3.21 minutes) has had several moments where she lost her emotional control because the chief medical officer on the ship of our previous posting, Dr. Leonard McCoy, would not allow her to perform simple surgeries. Because she cannot "do" anything with the biological science she studies, she prefers not to learn any of it at all.

The Body Alive allows her to perform surgeries in a situation where the stakes are not a living being's life, and she has found the toy limitlessly enriching and fascinating. My younger daughter still shows no interest in the biological sciences. However, she has used her fascination with electronics to program the Body Alive to "walk" by attaching it to two motorized robotic legs, which for some reason, people find quite terrifying.

My wife would also like to point out the toy is both great for cooperative and single play, though I do not understand why she does not simply offer her own review of the product (perhaps because she is frustrated that she cannot put in "ten stars" — I, too, was frustrated by not being able to put in 4.283 stars).

* * *

_ii._

_843 of 991 beings found this review helpful._

***/******

_(Note 1: The above image suggests I have given this item a 1 out of 5 star rating; however, in actuality, I award it zero stars. The system does not allow this option.)_

_(Note 2: I originally awarded this item approximately 5 stars, but since speaking with my wife, I have revised my opinion. I have left up the original, positive review for the sake of accountability.)_

Original Review:

The book My Two Mothers are Klingon Warriors and My Father is a Yet-Classified Light-Based Sentient is a forty-eight page book marketed toward young children with rudimentary language and reading skills, in which the the author communicates data primarily through the use of illustrations. The pictures are colorful and dynamic without exaggerated brightness and contrast, which can hurt young Vulcan eyes. Aesthetically pleasing renderings accompany simple but evocative text.

The purpose of My Two Mothers are Klingon is to expose adolescent beings to diverse family structures in an attempt to normalise a broader range of social systems and behaviours than what a child may be typically exposed to in the home. My daughters are three years, two months, and nineteen days old and understood the message of the book quite well. Our own family is inter-species, and though my children 'pass' as full Vulcans (and they are full Vulcans, in the same way that they are 'full' humans, and fully my daughters, and fully my wife's daughters; there is nothing partial about my offspring), we do come under a small amount of scrutiny if out together in public when passersby can discern that my bonded is human. Curious children walk up to us and pose queries. Curious adults do the same.

This book made my children feel less unusual and targeted, and for that I am grateful.

It is unlikely that I would have purchased this book had my children not been attracted by the image of two Klingon women on the cover and asked for it. I talk to my children candidly about these issues and can provide more context than a short 'picture book.' That said, I do not believe the book has been a detriment to their understanding. It seemingly achieved its stated purpose, to present a variety of families without moral judgment.

Updated/Edited Review:

I hereby retract all positive statements I made about the book My Two Mothers are Klingon Warriors and my Father is a Yet-Classified Light-Based Sentient.

When my wife returned from a short two-week mission on an off-world Vulcan colony, she resumed her part in our family's nightly routine, which involves reading stories to our daughters before they succumb to sleep. Both children requested My Two Mothers are Klingon. Not having been around when I purchased the book, this was my wife's first exposure to it. After reading through the book, she kissed our children good night in an unusually restrained manner, turned off their lantern, then took the book with her as she left their chambers. It is customary for us to leave the book on the shelves. I followed her through the corridors, curious as to her destination.

She threw the book in the garbage compactor located in the kitchen.

I conveyed to her my confusion and uncertainty regarding her behavior. She conveyed to me her negative feelings regarding my judgment on the matter of this book. To be precise, she said, "Why are all of the humans depicted in this book white?"

I admit that I was initially flummoxed by the question. "As well as all the Vulcans? And Bajorans? All of the species with melanocytic skin are white, white, white as marshmallows," she said. I should note that the white sentients illustrated do have some pigment, and are not as white as marshmallows. My wife sometimes utilises hyperbole to make rhetorical points.

I explained that the monophenotypical appearance of the melanocytic characters did not occur to me whilst reading, though now it seems quite obvious.

I cannot in good conscience recommend a book that is meant to normalise diversity that depicts only a narrow range of skin pigments.

I only hope that I have not done lasting damage to my daughters. My wife assures me that this is not the case, so at this time, we will not be seeking psychological intervention to help them work through any negative messages they may have inadvertently internalised based on my oversight. However, I fully understand that many of you may have purchased this book based on my review and now believe that your children require therapy as a result. If you contact me privately, I am willing to reimburse you the full cost of such sessions. I take full responsibility.

* * *

_iii._

_1901 of 2238 beings found this review helpful._

**_*****/_ **

_(Note that the above image suggests I have awarded this item 5 stars. In reality, I do not understand this rating system at all and choose to refrain from using it. Though I understand the necessity of a simplified grading system to convey information quickly to those who do not have time to read each review in-full, I cannot begin to offer a proper rating based on this system without a detailed rubric describing how the stars are levelled.)_

This is a review for AstrOs. Note that the seemingly random capital letter in the penultimate position of the word is intentional and not a mistake on my part. I believe that the marketers meant to draw a linguistic link between the 'o' in the word 'astro' and the O-shape of the cereal pieces. It is a pun, though not for comedic effect. Rather, it is meant for aesthetic flourish.

AstrOs is a grain-based cold cereal seemingly devoid of any nutritional value outside of providing calories. I would never have purchased such an item. My father bought it despite the fact that our shopping list specified a much more nutritious alternative, his only explanation being that my daughters requested it.

I thought immediately to throw the cereal away, but my daughters, who are 2.5 years old and just beginning to speak in complete sentences, repeated, "I want that," without cease.

I asked them, "Would you not prefer the more logical choice of nutrient-dense wild millet?"

To which they in unison replied, "No."

You should consider, readers, before purchasing this cereal that the bright graphic renderings on the cover of the box seem to have illogical hold on children's attention.

I had prepared to hide the cereal to use as bird feed, but I turned around to realise my wife was already pouring bowls of it for each of my twins.

I led her out of the room whilst my daughters ate to explain how illogical AstrOs were. She informed me that overly-dictating what children eat can lead to unhealthy relationship with food, and that there is no such thing as an illogical food. If it keeps them full, gives them energy, and they enjoy it, then it is as logical as it needs to be.

I advise all of you who are considering avoiding this cereal after your children personally request it to take heed of her advice. She struggled in the past for many years with eating and has much personal experience with this issue. I did further research, and published studies support her opinion. I can provide links to the articles should you wish to read them.

For now, our children are allowed to eat AstrOs.

The taste is not unappealing.


	7. Breath

Spock is reluctant to leave his _adun'a_ when she is suffering the secondhand effects of Selik's respiratory distress, but his daughter is in need and he will not deny her.

Spock helps Nyota onto the bench. He takes her hand and presses it into his palm to get a more precise impression of her mental state. Intense worry. Concern. Anxiousness. Laboured breathing. Guilt.

"Nyota," he says. He longs to lay his cheek against her chest so he can hear the reassuring thump of her heart, but he feels the gulf between them is too great to impose on her body thus. He wants to kiss her doubt away, but as has been the case for over six months now, he finds that he cannot.

"I'm fine. Go," she says, and he has no other choice but to obey.

Spock catches Selik's scent on the wind and follows it, sprinting southeast toward Mount _Kelek-Masu's_ foothills. He runs 96.2 kilometres per hour.

 _Nam-uh ri kwes, kan t'nash-veh. Sarlah na'du,_ he says, sending his daughter a warm wave of calm completely at odds with how he himself is feeling. _Do not be afraid, child of mine. I come for you._

She is hypoxic.

Spock feels her increasingly desperate gasps for air. Inflamed airways and bronchospasm make her chest and throat tight. She tries to flee from Spock's mental call even as he hears her anguished cries for oxygen through the bond.

He has done this to her. He has driven her away.

#

Seven months and thirteen days ago, Spock arrived home to find a letter from his older self on top the dresser in the foyer. The sender had not written a return address on the off-white envelope, but Spock recognised his own handwriting, filtered through time and another universe though it was.

" _Adun'a_ ," Spock called upon entering his home, the scent of limonene faint bus discernible in the air. Nyota had cleaned. " _Adun'a_?" he called out again, picking up the envelope, slipping it into the inner pocket of his uniform jacket. It was not logical to shout her name, not when he could simply locate her through the _tel_ , but it made him proud to say 'wife' aloud, to claim her as such.

She did not answer, but Spock followed the sound of creaking out to the back garden, where Nyota sat under a blanket on the porch swing that hung from the leafless tree, its branches jutted like the peaks of mountains. A cold wind coming from the East caused the swing to rock gently, the source of the creaking sound.

Nyota had not yet become privy to his presence, and for seven seconds, Spock watched her uninterrupted. Her hair had grown so long in the last year, far past the middle of her back. Curled in some parts, waved in others. Unbound. It gave her the look of the old Vulcan goddesses. Light from the stars revealed every perfect angle of her face and neck and ears.

Since first he ever saw her, Spock considered his wife's beauty something of a revelation. It was not logical to linger as he did on something as insignificant as her physical appearance, but neither was it logical to deny what was obvious; that she unwound his logic. Time had only deepened her splendour. Her buttocks and breasts had grown between 5.1 and 6.4 percent more robust in just the last year, a change that Spock found somewhat inflaming. This morning, when she'd still been wearing sleep attire, she'd reached up to the top shelf of the cabinet to get the girls their cereal, causing her shirt to lift, revealing the sculpted flat of her stomach, rounding into her hips, which were covered only by a pair of black girl briefs. He'd had a notion to take her right there, on the counter, though Selik and Amayel would wake in only fifteen minutes.

" _You know I can hear you breathing, Spockam, right?_ " Nyota asked in Vulkhansu, turning to look at him full on, her warm smile jolting him out of his reverie. Her accent generally proved flawless, but when she was tired, like now, a trace of a Swahili tinged the Vulcan words, the consonants softening and the vowels shortening. Spock found it illogically endearing.

" _Apologies for disturbing you_ ," he said, walking to join her on the swing. She moved the blanket so that it covered them both, then leaned into his side, her head dropping onto his shoulder. She'd recently washed her hair. It dampened the fabric of his jacket and smelled of lavender and detergent.

" _Nam-tor du sanokik ertaya_ ," she said, repeating back something he'd once said to her. _You are an agreeable disturbance._

" _The girls are already in bed?_ " Spock asked.

" _Ha. K_ _rol-tor n'Surak."_

Yes. Praise Surak, indeed. Both children were in an anti-bedtime phase of their development, and it could be quite trying some evenings. But it was nearly midnight now. They were no doubt sound asleep. Once the two of them succumbed to slumber, not even the eruption of a volcano could wake them.

Nyota curled more into Spock's embrace, her hand slipping under his uniform jacket, a single finger slipping through the space of two buttons on his shirt.

It was a light, innocent, feather touch, but still he felt a growl erupt in his chest. He only just managed to stop it.

She teased her finger along his skin through the gap in his shirt, pulling at the hair below his belly button.

" _You tease me, Nyota,_ " he said.

" _Vi? Nash-veh?_ " she asked.

_Who? Me?_

Yes, her, always her.

Another harsh, icy wind came westward, and Nyota shivered. She pulled her legs up onto the swing, buried her face into his neck.

Spock removed her hand from his stomach so he could properly remove his jacket and shirt, then pulled her to him to warm her with his body heat. She pressed kisses against his chin, scraped her teeth along the bottom of his jawbone.

" _You were missing from me today,"_ she said. _"I found myself longing for you more than usual."_

" _Fourteen hours, thirty-nine minutes, and twelve seconds without you took a similar toll on me,"_ he said, not wishing to admit that it was likely his own longing she'd been experiencing, not her own. Selik's recent hospital stay upset his emotional balance, and it ultimately had a cascading effect. Once one emotion was out of check, so then was another. He needed to work on shielding himself more effectively from his _adun'a_. He did not wish to violate her mind in such a way.

" _Vi-mashal nash-veh ne'sai-vel k'keshtan-ur-masu du nahan,"_ Nyota continued in a whisper, her tongue flicking lightly against his earlobe. _I soaked my underwear through with come thinking of you._

Spock tried to swallow but found his throat and mouth curiously dry.

" _I almost called you during the midday meal, but I came to my senses."_

" _You should have contacted me, adun'a. I would have come to you. I would have satisfied your need with my tongue, in turn easing my hunger for you, as well."_

She trembled in his arms, made a high-pitched noise in the back of her throat. Spock kissed her temple, nuzzled his nose into her hair. Brushing a finger against her wrist, he shared with her his desires: an image of her thighs draped over his shoulders whilst he feasted on her _keshtan-ur_ , his tongue parting her open and drinking what she offered.

He took the top curve of her ear into his mouth as he showed her his thoughts and bit down, hard. She cried out weakly and threw her arm around his middle, trying to get closer.

" _Can you be quiet, Nyota? Whilst I pleasure you?"_

Quickly, she nodded her head.

He bit her ear again, then lapped at the tiny marks he left, working his way down to her neck, then back up to her mouth. Once he divided her lips with his tongue, Spock could feel the heat of her stifled moans.

Nyota's thigh pushed against his erection with the slightest amount of pressure, and he felt his hips move into her, grinding to relieve some of the ache in his groin. His free hand worked his way down her side until he reached the elastic waistband of her leggings, the ones she typically wore as pajamas because they were worn and thin and left little to the imagination.

He knew that that if he slid his hand several centimetres downward, he'd feel the lovely slickness of her folds, hot and wet against his fingers. He wanted to push inside her with his fingers, feel the tightness over him. He would come as a result of the stimulation to his sensitive hands.

Before he could manage it, Nyota straddled him, a leg swinging over his lap, the swing rocking from the force.

"Spock _,"_ she said, moaning his name. _"Need you."_ Her tongue was soft and wet in his mouth. Her teeth nibbled his bottom lip. His hips jerked up between her legs, both of them still dressed below the waist, he in his uniform trousers and boxer-briefs, her in her leggings.

Nyota rubbed herself against the length of his hard _lok_ as she kissed him, already delirious with desire. Did she not know how much she tested his control when she behaved thus? He would have her on the ground, if need be, the cold surrounding them, their writhing bodies the only source of heat for kilometres.

He reached down between them and unbuttoned his trousers effortlessly as she dry fucked him, his cock already springing out through the space in his underwear. Her moisture had saturated her leggings where they covered her centre, slick against his penis as Nyota rubbed back and forth tantalisingly slow, his pre-come mixing with her arousal.

Everything about his _adun'a_ overwhelmed his senses. The thrumming of her heart and the heat of her mouth and the shortness her gasps. He felt her pleasure through the bond, the yearning between her legs only he could fulfill.

Spock ripped a hole in the crotch of her leggings and slid into her, entering her fully with one stroke, stretching her.

"Spock," she moaned, too loud, loud enough that those on the neighbouring compound would hear if their windows were opened, but all he wanted to do was make her say it louder, so that no one in Shi'Kahr doubted who it was Nyota Uhura belonged to.

He slid his hands under her shirt and lifted, tossing it away. She arched, leaning back, pushing her breasts out. He took a hard nipple into his mouth, circled it with his tongue as Nyota rose up and down over his cock. There were few things that gave him as much pleasure as the look on his beloved's face when she rode his cock.

He stood, his hands tight around her and her legs squeezing around his waist, his _lok_ still inside of her. Spock lay her on the ground, and she shivered from the cold. Unmoving, he watched the play of light across her face, the heaving of her chest and the length of her eyelashes. She tried to move her hips up, but he held her down.

" _Tell me what you want,"_ he said.

" _Du,"_ said Nyota. _"I need you. Please, please, please."_ He felt her desperation through the _tel_ , a coiled spring in the pit of her stomach.

" _Do I please you, Nyota?"_

" _Yes."_

" _Could anyone else please you as I do?"_

" _No."_

" _Would you ever have another?"_

" _No."_

" _Tell me you are mine."_

" _I am yours."_

" _Do you want me to take you here even though mine kin in the neighboring compounds might here the way you cry out for me?"_

" _Yes, God, please, Spock."_

He slid out of her slowly, the head of his _lok_ barely inside enough to spread her open for him, then he drove in hard, her gasps inciting him to go faster, more roughly.

When he leaned down in bit her neck, she came, her muscles tightening, igniting his own release. He pulled out, letting his semen spurt out on her belly, his groan shocking him in its ferocity.

He lay next to her for several seconds in the dirt, licking her ear and her cheek as she comes down. He scents his release on her as a breeze comes, combined with the intoxicating smell of her wetness, and it is like a sickness how blood begins to swell his penis yet again.

" _Turn,"_ he said, sitting up onto his knees.

She nodded because she knew what was coming, familiar with his appetites.

" _Take those off,"_ said Spock, nodding toward what remains of her leggings. She pulls them down easily, revealing the beautiful expanse of her legs.

Nyota flipped onto her stomach, her forearms positioned on the ground, and Spock lifted her ass into the air toward him, so beautiful. He bit her there, then licked downward until he reached her wet _keshtan-ur,_ still throbbing from her orgasm.

He tasted her, a teasing lick to her clit with the tip of his tongue, and the sound she made undid all the hurts he had ever endured. The smell and taste of her drove him to such madness that he confused it for _plak-tow_ the first time he'd ever experienced it. He slid his tongue between her folds and up to her clit, no longer able to force himself to go slow and savour it. In seconds, his mouth is buried between her legs, taking its fill of her as she pressed back into his face, her sounds further enticing him.

When he felt her clitoris swell and tighten with impending climax, he was tempted to pull back, to let her come down again and build her back up so that he could enjoy her for longer, but he needed to be inside of her again. He flicked his tongue until she screamed and thrashed against his mouth, and even before she finished, he pulled himself up and put his _lok_ into her, taking her from behind.

He lasted barely a few minutes before he roared with another orgasm, his come spilling into his wife. They both collapsed, exhausted, and he pulled her into his embrace.

When they were touching like this, hands clasped, cheeks pressed together, he could feel everything she felt so clearly. Her satisfaction and contentment, also her exhaustion.

" _We should sleep now, k'diwa."_

She said nothing, but he could sense her agreement.

"Did you see that letter?" Nyota asked, reaching over to grab the blanket they had long-ago abandoned in the midst of their lovemaking. She covered them both. Naked, bodies pressed together, they were something close to comfortably warm.

"Yes," said Spock. "That is why I came to you in the first place. I wondered if—I wondered if he had delivered it in person, the man who is simultaneously me and not me."

He could feel rather than see Nyota shaking her head, her hair moving against his lips and neck.

"Would it have upset you if he had?" she asked.

Spock considered the question a moment before coming to a conclusion. "I find myself unreasonably disconcerted by the idea of you near any other who would have you, and I know that he would have you, as he is me."

Nyota sat up, stretched her arms into the air.

"Will you tell me what it says, when you're done reading it, I mean?"

"Given that the nature of the letter is not private, of course," he said.

She took the blanket from him to wrap her naked body, her leggings effectively destroyed and her shirt nowhere to be seen. "I'm going to go pack lunch for the girls then go to bed. You'll come sit up with me until I fall asleep?"

"I will," he said.

She smiled that wide grin of hers, the one that showed how open and giving and generous her love was.

After Nyota slipped into the house, Spock went back to the porch swing, removed the envelope from the pocket of his uniform jacket. It would be illogical to linger, so he slid his finger to unbind the glue, removed the note inside, and read.

_Dear Spock,_

_It has been thirteen years, two months, two days, nine hours, seven minutes, and three seconds since our last encounter. In this time, I have been tempted to seek you out so that we might share a meal and converse on matters of fascination to us both, of which I am sure, given the circumstances, are many. I have resisted that urge until now._

_I am aware that you have two daughters who are approaching their seventh year, a significant time in the life of a V'tosh child. It is my hope you do not consider it too much of an intrusion that I am frequently in touch with Sarek regarding their welfare. I find myself overwhelmingly invested in their well-being. They are, from what I have gleaned, intelligent, curious, kind, and compassionate children. Kirk informs me that they are already 'little heart-breakers.' This is of no surprise to me given who their mother is._

_You will notice that this letter is meandering. Forgive my lapse in logic and decorum. It is difficult to supply energy to such tasks when you have reached the age I have._

_I reach out to you through this outmoded form of communication because I wished you to have the proper time to consider my request without a sense of pressure to reply in a timely fashion, as I know you would feel to do with any sort of electronic medium._

_I wish to see her, she who is your wife._

_I need not talk to her, if you would not desire it. However, I would appreciate the opportunity to spend some time in her presence, in the same room, if only for one minute, or if you are amenable, for two._

_I have been contemplating writing this letter for thirteen years, two months, two days, nine hours, and seven minutes._

_Peace and Long Life,_

_Spock_

Spock folded the letter and returned it to the envelope, its contents committed to memory. He located Nyota's discarded clothing, considered throwing the ripped tights into the recycler, but decided on second thought to keep them. He would leave them unwashed, and next time she was away on a mission, make use of them.

" _Spockam? Are you coming?"_ she asked from down the hall, her voice echoing against stony walls.

" _Ha, adun'a."_

He joined her on their bed, tugged her tightly into his stomach and did not let ago.

" _Is everything okay?"_

" _Ha."_

" _May I ask what he wrote you?"_

" _It is no matter."_

" _Are you sure?"_

" _Ha."_

" _You would tell me if it was something important, right?"_

Spock did not answer her, and Nyota tried to pull from his embrace. He could hardly bear to let her go, but he did.

Like she tended to do when upset, Nyota switched to speaking Standard. "You are hiding something."

"I simply do not wish to discuss the matter at this time."

"You just said there _was_ no matter."

"You are tired. You should sleep."

"I'm actually feeling quite awake now. What did he say? Was it about—does he think you're doing something wrong? Off course"

Since first finding out that it was Spock Prime who'd encouraged Captain Kirk to provoke an emotional reaction in Spock on the day of _Va'Pak_ because it was Kirk who was meant to be the captain of the Enterprise, Nyota had held an illogical fear that Spock Prime might seek to influence the course of events in this world again, in a way that would draw Spock away from her. _What if you find out he left me? For someone better?_ she had asked. Spock had wondered at the time if it was some sort of joke.

Now, Spock understood that despite her supreme confidence in matters of intellect and academics, she remained uncertain about her worth in other regards, for reasons he would not ever be able to fathom.

"It is nothing that should concern you, my _adun'a_."

"But I _am_ concerned. Can't you see that? A few minutes ago you were fine. Now you're clearly not. I can feel your unease, baby."

"Do not call me that," Spock said. He did not know what provoked him to snap as he did, especially when he generally found Nyota's use of affectionate endearments pleasant.

"And now you've just closed up on me. What're you thinking? I hate it when I can't feel you."

"I am thinking that I wish for you to sleep."

"Fine, Spock. Good night." She let the matter lie for the evening, but the next morning, when Spock awoke the next morning, he found her already gone, a note on the kitchen counter.

_Spock,_

_The girls' lunches are inside the fridge unit._

_Wake them at 7:00am because they did not take baths last night and will need them before the driver comes to take them to school at 8:00._

_Do not let Selik wet her hair._

_There's some plomeek soup on the stove if you'd like._

_Please stop by the chemist today to pick up Selik's prescriptions. I know I said I'd do it, but I'll be working late tonight. Don't wait up._

_Nyota_

He understood the note for what it was, a bid for space, or in more colourful Standard terms, an instruction list that loosely translated to, 'go fuck yourself.'

#

Spock sees Xerxes' paw prints in the dirt, most of them blown over by wind and covered with brush, but he makes them out.

At the speed her runs, Spock locates his daughter in less than ten minutes. Xerxes howls, high-pitched wails into the night, trotting a circle around Selik's body.

"Selik!" Spock shouts and goes to to his child. Her eyes are closed and she is pale. He rips open her top and puts his ear to her belly, listening for the sound of her heart. It is pulsing, faintly, slowly.

Spock knows mouth to mouth resuscitation is useless, not when her throat is closed and her lungs half-functioning. He places his thumb, index, and middle finger on the psi-points of her cheeks, and enters her mind—in a way that he knows she would hate but he has no other choice at this moment.

He keeps his touch light, avoiding her emotional centres, instead focusing on her bio-controls.

 _Samekh,_ she cries in his mind.

_I am here, ko-fu._

He removes an inhaler from his pocket, pokes it between her lips and squeezes, but the _beta-2-agonist_ does nothing to relieve the contracted muscles of her bronchi, swollen and inflamed, refusing to be soothed. He needs to get her home. She will need magnesium sulphate intraveneously. He can already feel bacteria gathering in her lungs, her airways unable to clear mucus inflamed as they are. She would get pneumonia, most certainly, for the third time this year, weakening her yet more.

Spock closed his eyes, focused on his daughter's chest. He placed his free palm on her chest, sending psy-shocks through her skin and ribcage to help relax her bronchi. He felt her responding, the slightest bit of air getting through to her. He prioritises her blood flow so it goes to her brain first. It is exhausting, but when he focuses, he forces constricted passages to open and clear. For such minute yet powerful functions, it requires all of his energy, and he senses his body weakening as he opens up her bronchioles with his mind, unclogs her broncholiotes. He flattens her diaphragm so she might inhale, contracting her abdominals to encourage large, deep, healing breaths.

He feels her rising to consciousness—not to wakefulness entirely, but to a state like sleep, and Spock allows himself to remove himself from her mind. He collapses next to her, shaking with the effort he's expended. His brain aches like a snapped bond. His lungs seem to seize. His heart beat climbs.

In the distance, Spock hears voices. "Honoured One!" they call.

Spock thinks it is S'harien and Zhi'rev, two of his grandmother's attendants. Perhaps others approach, as well, judging by the number of footfalls. He cannot muster the energy to call out to them and give away his location, but he is confident they will find him.

Spock pulls Selik's body toward his and holds her, comforted by the sound of her breathing as he falls unconsciously into a healing trance.

#

Spock is haunted by nightmares of _p'pil'lay,_ of broken bonds. Distantly, he feels that he is being seen to by one of T'Pau's men. But it is too far away to consider. He thinks only of she who is his wife.

It is a precarious undertaking, attaching one's self inextricably to another.

Non-Vulcans misunderstand _telan_ —bonding. It is not a bridge between two minds, nor is it a 'link,' as it is frequently (and falsely) described in Standard. It is _meil-tel_ , a chemical join. The same electrical forces that fuse atoms together to form various elements and compounds causes the mind to merge with another.

A piece of Nyota's unique neurophysiology is entwined with his, and a piece of his with hers. The connection he feels to his daughters, and to his other kin, is significant as well, but it does compare to the reality of having another's mind be an inherent part of your identity, like another hemisphere in the brain.

Yet Nyota has given her heart to another; of this, Spock is reasonably certain. For years others have coveted her. His _adun'a's_ intellect, specifically in the field of informatics, impresses all. Her intuitive understanding of abstract scientific data allow for creative solutions to problems few even know exist until she points them out. Her accomplishments have earned her a competitive posting in the Federation Defence Network, a joint effort between Vulcan High Command and Starfleet to map uncharted space in the galaxy using an invention of Nyota's that compresses radio waves remotely and retrieves them for analysis via subspace. Her device, still in prototype form, will in all probability change how the Federation explores beyond the Alpha Quadrant.

Maresh, Nyota's direct superior on the project, personally requested her for the posting. Nyota had first thought to decline the offer. She did not trust her invention in the hands of Starfleet, still troubled by the memory of Admiral Marcus and wary of the militarism and colonialism inherent to Starfleet's mission, regardless of claims to the converse. Nyota's recent promotion to Commander allowed her some flexibility in choosing postings, and she'd wished to continue working on High Command's comm relay.

Spock thought the matter quite settled until when six months ago Maresh made a personal visit to their home to convince Nyota to accept the position. Spock and Nyota had been eating breakfast outside whilst Selik and Amayel played Storm vs. T'Vet. Amayel argued that T'Vet was a _real_ Vulcan goddess of war and therefore would easily destroy a made-up goddess like Ororo Munroe. She did not use signs when speaking to Selik. Their twin-bond, as well as Amayel's psi-strength, allowed them to communicate completely telepathically. Spock only discerned the gist of what they were saying by prodding slightly at his own empathic link to them.

The Vulcan General known as Maresh arrived as Spock was about to refill Nyota's coffee. He rang the bell at the front gate of their compound, and Amayel and Selik had taken off running to greet him, barefoot, their feet caking with red-orange clay. "Someone is here," Selik yelled, hearing the sound of the tolling chime in the distance.

"I wonder who that is," Nyota said, her voice tight, just as it had been for the past seventeen days when she spoke to Spock, since he'd received that letter and refused to tell her what it said.

Spock turned from the door toward the sound of the bell, set down his wife's still-empty cup onto the table. "I do not know." Squinting, he made out at Vulcan male with olive skin, young in Vulcan terms, perhaps sixty-five, taller than Spock, and broader. He wore robes that signified he was part of High Command, the _lan-terseht_ showing his rank as General.

"Selik. Amayel. Do not go any further," he called to his daughters as they dashed to the gate. They apparently did not hear though they should have been within range to do so. Both continued their sprint to meet the stranger.

Xerxes trotted after them, passing them, thinking it a game.

" _Kofu_ -lar," said Spock, this time his voiced raised and his tone sharp. "You will do as your _samekh_ says and go no further.

This time they stopped, slowing to a jog before stilling completely.

"Samekh, there is someone important to see us!" said Selik. "Perhaps he will explain to Amayel that T'Vet is no less made up than Ororo Munroe, and therefore that should not factor into who wins."

Spock saw the way Nyota reacted to Maresh. He told jokes. He was charming. At least twenty or thirty years her senior, he was worldly and learned in ways Spock was not yet. It was not illogical to feel jealous. Nyota was his. There was no question of this. And yet.

He saw, too, the way he easily changed Nyota's mind about accepting the position. The way Selik, who rarely opened up to those outside of her family, spoke excitedly to him about Ororo Munroe. And Maresh said that the psychic energy required to control the weather was not out of the realm of reason for a V'tosh devoted herself properly to meditation, which caused her to meditate on a regular basis for the first time in months.

Spock would never be a man who gave his affections easily, not when he'd spent the better part of his life hiding all vulnerability for fear of physical assault.

Maresh was a true Vulcan in a way that Spock never would be.

Has Spock not failed as a father and husband?

As he feels the tremulous breaths of his _kofu_ next to him, he believes the evidence to be quite conclusive.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot going on with Spock right now, my poor angst bear. Things will become clearer with each chapter, I hope, but hopefully this has given you a sense of some of the things that are troubling him, and why there is this distance between him and Nyota at the moment. I don't want to overwhelm you all with back story each chapter...so I hope this is both satisfying and tantalising.
> 
> Sorry about all the Vulcan! I am learning it right now, and this is my only way to practise. I hope that for the most part everything is understandable based on context.
> 
> I am wary of italics, but eh, what are you gonna do.
> 
> Comments always welcomed.


	8. Ha-kel (Home)

At the feel of sodden sheets cold beneath her thighs, Amayel awakes. She has wet the cot again, and urine drips down her hamstrings and the backs of her knees. If she does not clean this mess up before too long, her bunkmates will discover her deed and take it upon themselves to urinate on her possessions as they did last time she proved incontinent in her sleep, ruining the first edition print copy of the second issue of Grek Pak's _Storm_ solo series. She'd purchased it for Selik on the camp's field trip to the Terran lunar colony, happening upon it at a 'flea market.'

Amayel's eyes creak open and flick toward the window, where she sees—not fog, as she would expect on Omega C-2—but stars, actual stars, bright and luminous and plainly visible. Their position relational to her suggests that she's on New Vulcan. She wonders if she's asleep and the view is a trick of her unconscious. No matter. How wondrous it is to see stars again, even if only in a dream. Does there exist anything more beautiful than hydrogens colliding so they might radiate trillions of photons of light across the galaxy as matter converts to energy?

E=mc2. Discovered by Honoured Lady Evekh on Vulcan, Albert Einstein on Terra, Sil glausch Grug on Tellar Prime.

Faced with the night sky's overwhelming magnificence, Amayel must consider how poorly her name suits her. She shares little in common with _khio'ri-lar_ , stars.

 _Va'_ _ **ama**_ _un_ _ **yel**_ _,_ her samekh had named her. Mimicking a sun. False.

Stars do not urinate on themselves in their sleep.

Amayel blinks her eyes several times, attempting to wake herself up more fully. She catches the chemical tang of steroids as her senses sharpen, as well as the saltiness of evaporated tears, the sweet fragrance of coconut oil, mango butter, cactus leaf syrup. Those scents belong uniquely to Selik, and upon smelling them, Amayel remembers that she is no longer on Omega C-2, but at home in her own bed. The dull throbbing she suddenly feels in her arm is not from the healed fractures, but from her sister's weight on top the limb. It is a gratifying realisation.

" _Ko-kai?"_ Amayel asks through the bond. "I have done that foolish thing I do and soiled the sheets."

Selik sleeps too deeply to register the mental nudge.

Amayel's eyes begin to adjust to the lack of light and she takes in her surroundings. Across from her is her sister's oxygen tent, abandoned, the blankets bunched up. Sometime in the night, Selik must have left it to join her twin in their shared cot.

Dry heat wraps around Amayel like a network of copper wires, all sparking blue fire, electricity, so different than Omega C-2, which had felt like the inside of a mouth. Wet, foggy, sticky.

" _Ko-kai?"_ Amayel asks again, and she feels her sister rising to consciousness, less from Amayel's call and more from the scent of urine and the feel of liquid against her thighs.

Amayel attempts to dislodge Selik from her arm, somewhat successfully, but her sister rolls back on immediately.

"What is that cold spot on my thigh?"asks Selik telepathically.

"Sorry," Amayel responds.

"It is nothing," says Selik through the link as she makes the final rise to complete consciousness. When her eyes flash open, she makes the hand sign for sister—not the official sign, but the one they made up to address each other when they were but still-toddling babies. Left hand drawn into a fist, to represent a heart, right hand clasped around one side of the fist. _Other half of my heart._

"You have finally returned. I would not wish for you to leave me again for so long, _ko-kai_ ," signs Selik, though their proximity makes it unnecessary for her to speak in such terms.

"I would not wish it either," says Amayel through the mind-link. She cannot sign properly, as her sister still lies on one of her hands.

"Your arm is hurt; therefore my arm is hurt," says Selik, referring not to the numbness brought on by Selik's weight, but to the fractures. "I sense now what happened as we touch, but I could not feel you while you were away. You hid from me. Like a Romulan warbird with its cloaking device on. Or, perhaps, mort aptly, like the x-mutant Cipher. Her powers included full spectrum invisibility," Selik says using a combination of signs and mind-images. Amayel sees an issue of a comic called _Young X-Men_ and agraphic depiction of a young human girl with brown skin and locked hair.

"I shielded myself because I did not wish you to feel what I felt."

"You are illogical, _ko-kai_ ," says Selik.

"No more illogical than one who runs away into the desert alone with only Xerxes as company," Amayel says, as she recalls the details of the past evening: arriving back to the compound and waking up in Honoured Great-Grandmother's arms, Komekh demanding to hold her, pressing a cheek to Komekh's chest, breathing in Komekh's smell, feeling the long strands of Komekh'shair, wondering _where is Samekh? Where is Selik?_

Amayel had opened her mind to retrieve the answers to her questions, a bevy of thoughts, experiences, and emotions rushing her as she did. Her kinsmen thought so loudly. So did everyone.

Amayel felt so glad for her deafness because she did not believe she could take the noise of the world in addition to the noise of people's thoughts, which she frequently heard though she tried not to—not just from her family, but from strangers. No touch required.

Selik calls her _T'Kehr X_.

Professor X.

Mama'd felt violent rage when T'Pau shared the circumstances surrounding Amayel's injury and sudden departure from camp. Honoured Great-grandmother felt cool, calculated hatred.

T'Pau's attendants felt a varying mixture of intense loyalty, weariness, apprehension, worry, anger, concern. Concern for Amayel. Concern for Honoured Great-grandmother. Concern for Komekh. Concern for Samekh. Concern for Selik.

One of them still mourned for her bonded, who perished during Va'Pak, and despite the years that had past, that weighed foremost in her mind.

Another wished to prepare Selik's treatment, but would wait for T'Pau's command to do so.

One of the body guards was in telepathic contact with S'harien, to whom he was secretly bonded. S'harien had located Selik and Samekh, who were both stable.

Through the thoughts and emotions of everyone in the room, Amayel pieced the night's events together before Mama'd carried her to her chambers, laid her onto the mattress, pressed a line of kisses up and down her fractured arm.

"I am not ready for sleep," Amayel had signed.

"It's very late, little one," Mama signed back. Amayel tried to get a better sense of her mother's thoughts, and she reached out so they could touch hands.

 _Nosey girl,_ Mama said in her mind.

 _I am simply desirous of closeness_ , Amayel replied.

_I missed you, too, little one, but now you've got to rest up, and recover. Tomorrow we'll talk, okay?_

_Talk?_ Amayel asked. Mama always spoke so vaguely.

 _About camp,_ said Mama, and brushed strands of wavy hair behind her ear, the scent of shampoo wafting into Amayel's nose.

Mama understood the extent of Amayel's psychic skill more than anyone else, even more than Honoured Great-Grandmother. She could feel Amayel's telepathy vicariously. She discussed it sometimes in whispers to Samekh, and though he agreed, he did not feel it the way Mama did.

Amayel thinks she's inherited her skill from Mama. The way Komekh sees the world, through radio and other electromagnetic waves, it is like that with Amayel. Like there is a layer of the world she can sense that no one else can. It is intuitive, something felt and experienced like the Universal Gravitational Constant.

"You did quite a thing, didn't you?" Mama asked in signs, the slender bones of her fingers jutting the air, her face a map of meaning. "Not only did you have your mental shields up, but you made it look as if they weren't there at all, sending us waves of false happy feelings."

She sounded neither disappointed nor upset when she discussed what Amayel did.

"Your mind is your own, Yel, but it is my job and your father's job to protect you. How can we do that if you deceive us in such a way?"

Amayel fiddled with a loose thread on the quilt covering her cot. "I prefer not to be a bother. I know there is much on yours and Samekh's mind. I am physically healthy, therefore I am fine."

Mama took both of Amayel's hands, folded them between her palms and squeezed hard, so hard. "Sweetie, what happened to you is not fine, so you get that ridiculous notion out of your head right this instant. You deserve respect. You deserve acceptance. Anything less than that, you have every right to make the biggest fuss, and if you don't do it, I'll do it for you."

Mama's breathing was not so good but she attempted to hide it. Focusing on Amayel seemed to help.

 _Will Selik have to go to hospital?_ Amayel asked with the touch of her hands.

_No. Father reassured me she is recovered enough to stay the night here._

_Would it be possible to set up her breathing chamber in here rather than in yours and Samekh's room like you usually do?_

Mama nodded. _I can do that._

_I know that there is much afoot, but will you stay with me here until I fall asleep?_

Mama nodded again, sung a lullaby in Swahili that made Amayel think of summer and elephants and grey mountains and long-bearded farmers. She could not hear it per se, but she felt it through her mother's touch, could vaguely pick out tones here and there, distant and as far away as stars themselves. Mama was truly a _khio'ri,_ a _yel_. Not like Amayel. With that thought, she'd fallen asleep.

Then she urinated and awoke. Now here she is.

" _Let us clean up this mess,"_ says Selik, scooting around the damp spot on the cot.

The two of them swing their legs over their twin-sized cot, feet landing onto the rug that covers the stone floor, hand-spun and hand-woven by _Bibi_ , mama's mother, _Grandma_ , who lives much too far away. The pieces of her located about their chambers in the form of books she'd gifted them and art she made helps soothe some of the ache of her absence. Amayel scrapes the bottoms of her bare feet over the coarse cotton of the weaving.

Selik pulls the sheet off of the mattress and drops it into a pile on the floor. "Take these to the chute, _T'Kehr_ _X_ ," she says. Not out loud. Only in her mind. Of course, Amayel understands anyway.

Selik sprays the synthetic mattress cover with disinfectant spray as Amayel tip-toes into the corridor with the bundle of soiled bed clothes. After dropping them off into the chute, Amayel scurries to the living area, the lights low but not completely off. Hidden in the passageway, she sees parents on the sofa, asleep. It is comforting to see them entwined in such away, Mama half on top Samekh, his arm wrapped around her, one of her legs thrown over his.

Selik can sense their thoughts quite strongly, though she tries to shut them out. Part of her misses the distance of Omega C-2, where it was much easier to find quiet in her own mind.

Samekh thinks of Mama.

Mama thinks of Samekh.

Samekh is also scared, deeply scared, of something Amayel could not identify. It had to do with Mama. He held it away and tucked it into himself. It was too tangled a web for Amayel to untangle.

Mama, for now, felt mostly relief. Her dreams were quiet and undisturbing. She was happy to be held by Samekh. She was happy to know her Selik had been returned to her. Happy about amayel.

Underneath the contented feelings are some tinges of unrest. Anger, hurt, shame.

The emotions are enough to make Amayel's eyes want to water, so she attempts to shield herself.

Amayel tip-toes to the kitchen, opens the fridge unit, and takes out the glass pitcher of sweet melon milk, pours it into two small glasses for she and Selik.

A little bit of the drink spills over the top of the glass as she walks, dripping onto her fingers and the floor. By the time she returns to her bed chambers, there is a fresh fitted sheet on the cot, the lantern is on, and Selik has a pile of comics on the bed.

"Hurry, _ko-kai_ , here are the issues you missed whilst you were away."

"We must clean ourselves first."

They head outside, go the water pump and fill the bucket with water from the well.

Selik pours washing powder into the bucket, stirs it with her fingers.

The stars light their movements.

They each grab a cloth and scrub themselves clean. There is fresh laundry hanging on the line. They each grab one of their komekh's shirts and put them on.

They are quiet like mice when they re-enter their home.

"Quick, quick!" signs Selik, when she sees Samekh stir slightly on the couch, his hand spread on Mama's back. Amayel is not worried. She jogs only to keep up with Selik, the both of them leaving trails of water on the floor.

They sit cross-legged on the floor next to each other and flip through comics, play with their PADDs. Every twenty minutes, one of them feels moved to sign or send a message through the bond.

It is after some time that Amayel is able to say what she wishes to say.

"You nearly died."

Selik continues to play with her X-Men figurines for several seconds, saying nothing.

Then:

"I could feel my katra slipping away, yet here I am. The last that I remember is not being able to breathe, then feeling Samekh in my mind, warm like a desert wind, warm like Mama."

Amayel stands and goes to their shelf, removes a small wooden box and brings it back to the floor where she and her sister sit. Inside is a photograph of Mama and Samekh. Mama is largely pregnant in the image. She sits on Samekh's lap. She is laughing. Father is—not laughing, but his nose is against her cheek quite intimately. Amayel stole the photograph from the family album. She traces her pointer over their faces as she speaks with Selik.

"According to Honoured Great-Grandmother's thoughts, he had to do such extensive work to revive you that he nearly wore his body into starvation." The comment is only half-meant as a chastisement.

"I _know_ ," says Selik, and even without the aid of tone, Amayel can certainly perceive the indignation in the thought. "I could feel him knitting my lungs together. One day I will be as strong as him. I will be able to heal myself like that." She plays with her 'action figures', though less enthusiastically then before. After two minutes and twelve seconds, she asks, "Do you think Samekh will be very angry at me?"

"I cannot predict one way or the other," signs Amayel, replacing the photograph into the box.

"Do you think he will hate me even more after this?" Selik asks.

"That would imply he hates you even a small amount now, which I do not believe is the case." Amayel takes a swallow of melon milk.

"Tell me about _ith'du,"_ Selik says. Her own beverage is gone, so when Amayel finishes her sip, she takes from her glass.

"Camp did not meet my expectations."

Amayel recounts the last week of camp with images.

"I think that it would not be difficult for me to locate and destroy them. I am not Storm, but I am very strong and I have been practising fighting with mama. I know how to stick fight. We have choreographed many 'dances' and am confident I am unbeatable. Do you wish to see?"

"I do wish to, but it would not be logical given your present lung capacity," says Amayel.

So Selik reaches out her hand to Amayel's cheek, seeking permission, and Amayel nods.

Amayel's mind fills with images of Selik and Mama's practise sessions: the images, the smells, even the sounds. Clapping and beating drums. Selik's 'dance'—the patterning of movements, kicking, swinging, turning, spinning, her body fluid but precise, as Mama taught her.

Selik learned to fight first. She'd walked in on mother practising. She said she thought Mama was Storm for a said she wanted to look like that, too.

And so their training began.

Amayel enjoyed learning martial arts, too, especially the styles that Mama taught, because it was a way for her to enjoy a kind of music. She could feel the vibrations from the heavy, loud drumming and clapping, banging sticks.

Of course, they learned a variety of V'tosh _wehk-pukan_ -ar, as well.

Mostly in school, during their Physical Training (P.T.).

A'sum'i, characterised by leaping kicks and acrobatic movements.

Kali-k'hy, characterised by wrestling and grappling, low to the ground, floor movements.

Ke-tarya, an Ancient art with precise, difficult to perform movements that required intense flexibility, muscle control, and psychic strength.

Suus mahna, which was purely defensive, involving side jumps and low centre of gravity.

Amayel had only done the basics that were required to excel in school, but Selik took private lessons in the various forms and even competed in tournaments, a champion in her age category.

Mother called her _kidege_ , bird, because of the way she could move, or _duma,_ cheetah _,_ for her speed and grace.

Samekh called her: _Markau Svai fi'arev._ Flower blossom floating on the desert wind.

Frequently, they trained together, Spock and Selik, Spock spending hours with Selik until she mastered a particular skillt, refusing to move forward until she executed the move perfectly.

Amayel would peak through the front door as they worked outside.

But Selik's skill truly flourished during the dance.

Selik withdraws her hand once she finishes showing Amayel the newest fight choreography.

"I have missed much," signs Amayel.

"Yes."

They go to the kitchen and retrieve more drink, toast to Surak and T'Vet and Ororo Munroe and to good health and the prosperity of the clan.

They click their glasses together and drink the creamy, sweet, opaque juice of the spiked melons that grew on their property. It reminds Amayel of the strange Terran fruit 'coconut' and the beverage made from the flesh and juice, but much sweeter and intensely spicy, like fresh 'ginger'

"Do you think in a fight of Mama vs. Storm, that Storm would win?" Amayel asks.

"Of course not," says Selik. "It would be very close, though. Storm would put up a very nice fight."

"Indeed," says Amayel.

"How about a fight between Samekh and the Wolverine?" asks Selik.

"I do not have your expertise on the mythology of the characters to be able to answer that," Amayel signs.

They discuss X-Men. They discuss carnivorous plants. They discuss building a metal detector to find ore. Once they have discussed all of these very important topics, Amayel brings up something else that has been on her mind.

"Do you know what divorce is?"

" _P'pil'lai_?" asks Selik.

"Yes. It is a piece of paper that unbonds two people."

"Unbonds? I do not understand," Selik signs.

"It is a severing in the mind, I believe."

"The mind split in half? Like dying?" asks Selik.

"I suppose," Amayel says, though she does not know for sure.

"How can a paper do such a thing? Is it technologically advanced paper? Does the paper emit an electromagnetic field that alters the chemical makeup of the brain?" Selik signs rapidly, her brow scrunched as she tries to work it out.

"It simply says it and makes it so. Like a law. My acquaintances at the camp said that Samekh and Mama would be getting _p'pil'lai_ , that sending a child to camp is always the first sign."

"Conjecture," says Selik.

"That is what I first thought, then they listed several pieces of evidence that made me pause to reconsider. Mama and Samekh are not frequently in the same room. They say only what is necessary to each other. There is no short talk between them," Amayel signs, going through the list of items in her head. There are more, but those are the major areas of concern.

"So Mama and Samekh will die?" asks Selik.

Then Amayel 'hears' Samekh coming down the corridor, through Selik's ears.

As the footsteps approach they rush to bed, cutting off the lantern, their glasses of half-drunk melon milk still on the floor, the comics still about.

Selik puts her fingers to her lips, saying, _quiet_.

Amayel is quite tempted to roll her eyes but does not. Like, as if.

" _Kofu-lar?_ "

They pretend to sleep.

Samekh turns their lantern back on.

"Good morning," he says.

Indeed, there is light coming through the window, Amayel notices.

She tries to stay facing away from Samekh, to bundle her head into Selik's side, but she cannot resist the urge to run to her Samekh and jump into his arms and squeeze her arms around his neck and her legs around his middle and lay her head against his chest, and it is her plan in that moment to never let him go.

"It is gratifying to see you," says Samekh. "Your absence was felt."

He kisses the tip of her ear.

"I thought of you daily," Amayel says with her fingers, pressing them into the back of her Samekh's neck. "You smell like lemon rind and wet clay. It is a most pleasing smell."

Samekh begins to rock as he holds her, and she yawns. "Is your arm healed, _pi'masuk'veh_?"

Little Giant.

She does not know why he calls her this but it is not upsetting to hear.

"It is healed, Samekh."

"And yet it should not have happened at all."

He sways back in forth with her, hums from deep in his stomach and chest so she can feel the vibrations of sound, and their closeness imparts the melody and lyrics into her head.

Sandau tu, pi'khio'ri, fi'ir'zehl  
Hizhuk u'belaar sov-masu, fusik nu'ri yel

Sandau tu, pi'khio'ri, abru'feh,  
Katan ha'ge t'du karil-shraun shi-tor seveh

Vi'le-esh-tor du kan-pi'gel  
Shok-tor du rala t'kurshel  
heh han t'i'dek

Yem-tor du heh yem-tan-tor du  
Rikanashik solektra u'  
Komekh kan t'ish-veh

Sandau tu, pi'khio'ri, fi'ir'zehl  
Hizhuk u'belaar sov-masu, fusik nu'ri yel

_(You appear, little star, on the horizon,_   
_Quiet as a summer rain, shy, young sun._

_You appear, little star, over the mountain peak,_   
_Your light bringing prosperity to this winter-worn place._

_You inspire the baby shooting plant._   
_You kiss the wings of birds_   
_and the noses of animals._

_You nourish and you feed_   
_The barren land as_   
_The mother her child._

_You appear, little star, on the horizon,_   
_Quiet as a summer rain, shy, young sun.)_

Before she realises it she is being laid into her cot next to Selik. Her mind is far away. She is half asleep.

"Selik, you must return to your oxygen tent now," he says.

"But Samekh I wish to sleep in my own bed with Amayel. It is _my_ bed is it not?" says Selik.

"As is the bed in the oxygen tent. You must heal, my daughter. You _must_."

Samekh reaches out his arms. "May I pick you up and hold you?" he asks her.

Selik says nothing, her lips pouted out, her face stern and her eye brows knit together. Then she reaches out for Samekh. He cradles her in his arms like a baby, the hinge of her knees hanging over one arm, the back of her head against the opposite shoulder.

He carries her to her tent but does not immediately put her down. With her still resting in his arms, he kisses her nose, then each of her cheeks. He lays her down onto the cot, pulls the blankets up over her shoulders. "You are cherished and adored by this-one," he says, before stepping out of the tent, re-starting the oxygen-concentrator.

Amayel feels the tears that will not fall from his eyes hot on her own face when he steps out the room. She feels Selik dream of lightning and father's hand re-starting her heart like a defibrillator. She feels the desert just next to her, just outside the window. She is home.

* * *

**The lullaby is to the tune of _Somewhere Over the Rainbow_. It's grammatically correct, I think! It took forever...Why do I spend time on such foolish things? I can't sing at all, but I made a recording of it so you might hear it. Apologies for my voice. If you go to schn-tgai-uhura dot tumblr it's the top post and you can hear it. **

**Comments always cherished. I hope you're enjoying the story.**


	9. Rites of Passage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for allusions to CSA and mentions of disordered eating.

Nyota is fourteen when she leaves home for university.

Coach Bryant texts her the day she receives her acceptance letter from Oxford.  _Congrats_ , he says _._ She doesn't know how he found out she got in.

 _Thanks,_ she texts back.

#

She's exhausted all the local class offerings: advanced calculus applications, linear algebra, abstract algebra, partial differential equations, geometry and topology; quantum physics, field theory, subspace mechanics, warp mechanics; economics, literature, psychology, biology, French, German, Russian, Mandarin, Cantonese, Persian, Hebrew, Arabic, several Afrosiatic languages, including an even spread between Berber, Semitic, Chadic, and Cushitic tongues.

She wants to know everything about everything and then some. Mama calls her  _Sifongo_ , sponge. It just kills her—absolutely kills her—that there's some knowledge floating about out there in the ether and she hasn't learned it yet.

#

 _Can you make it to our spot Friday after school?; I want to celebrate you properly,_ Coach Bryant texts.

 _IDK,_ she writes back.

_I got you something._

_What?_

_Something special for a special girl._

_I don't want anything._

_Fine. Forget it._

_Are you mad at me?_ she asks, her thumbs moving frantically against the touch screen of her PADD.

He doesn't text back.

 _Coach?_ she asks.

 _What?_ he texts.

_I'll come, ok?_

_Can you spend the night?_

_Ok. I'll tell my mom I'm at Mary-Elizabeth's._

#

Nyota still doesn't menstruate. Mama blames cross country, says Bryant trains her too, too hard. Demands too much. "It is not healthy to run as much as you do when there is nothing chasing you," she warns. "What are you fleeing from?"

The school counsellor is worried about Nyota's eating, or rather, Nyota's lack of eating. She says malnourishment might be why Nyota hasn't gotten her cycle yet.

#

"Mama?" Nyota asks.

"What is it?" says Mama, only half paying attention as she browns goat meat in the iron skillet in preparation for supper.

"Is it okay if I don't go?" Nyota asks, her elbows resting on the surface of the kitchen table, surrounded by books and PADDs and research she's printed out to compare offers from various schools.

"Is it okay if you don't go where? To Mass tomorrow? That's fine. I know you have that test on Monday to study for, though of course you'll do fine. You always do."

Nyota adds another pro to her Oxford pros and cons list in pencil. They've agreed to cover her tuition, housing, and travel expenses, as well as to award her a 40,000-credit per year living stipend. "I mean to university," says Nyota. "Is it okay if I don't go to university this year? Will you be disappointed in me?"

Mama sprinkles salt over the meat that's frying, sets her wooden spoon down across the pan's rim, then looks at her daughter. "You could turn up home with a dead body in the backseat of the flitter, child, and I would not be disappointed in you. Your existence alone makes me proud, and anything good or bad you do doesn't really change that," she says, throwing some flat bread dough into the oven. "That said—why on God's green Earth would you not want to go?"

Nyota sets her pencil down and prepares to make her case. "I'll be too young to compete at a college level for track. No way to train. How can I go to the Olympics without a team to train on?"

"Since when do you care about the Olympics?"

"I love to run."

"Loving to run has got nothing to do with the Olympics. I have  _never_ heard you mention the Olympics. Ever."

"Coach Bryant said if I waited on university and trained with him for the next two years, I could maybe go some day. He said it was a waste of potential if I didn't at least try for it. He said he's never seen anyone as fast as me. He said I had a gift. He said I reminded him of a  _duma._ " Nyota picks up her pencil again and starts to tap it—she needs something to do with her fingers.

Mama turns away and faces the stove, adds chopped carrots and onions to the meat. "Coach Bryant said that?"

"Yeah."

"What else has he said?"

Nyota draws squiggles with her pencil, then a smiley face, then a flip-book using the bottom corners of her notebook of a girl running, running, as fast as she can. "I don't know. A lot of stuff."

"Like what?"

"Like normal coach stuff, I don't know. I'm going to my room to think about all this."

#

She decides to attend the Institute for Advanced Mathematics, a satellite college of Harvard University located in Ethiopia. She's not comfortable with specialising yet, so English schools are out. Ethiopia is far enough away from home that she'll get the real university experience, but close enough that there are hourly shuttle rides.

When she tells Coach Bryant, he says,  _Okay,_ and that's the last she hears from him in a long while.

That night, she looks at herself in the mirror. Her chest is small. She is small. Sometimes she wants to stay this way forever, like  _he_  wants her to; sometimes she wants to be Giant, Colossus, Leviathan, Behemoth. She wants to be lovable, or unlovable.

#

She and Mama fly the family flitter all 2000 kilometres from Mombasa to Addis Ababa, pausing in Tsavo East National Park, visiting El Sod and the singing wells, watching herders play the flute for their mountain goats, staying in inns and with family. They teach her how to cook and how to pray and how to catch fish with her bare hands.

It is a 29-hour drive turned into a month-long expedition. Mama says, "I never put much stock into all the pomp and ceremony people put into rites of passage, but now that you are leaving me so soon, I realise there is much I haven't taught you. You don't even know how to cook  _mandazi._ How to hold your hand over the hot palm oil to tell when it's hot enough to add the sweet dough for frying. Your woman-time still hasn't come though you are far past the age. Don't be using any random old cloths when it arrives. Go to the market and get yourself proper sanitary items, all right?"

"Yes, Mama," says Nyota

#

She graduates in three years with a joint major in mathematics and psycholinguistics, goes to Addis Ababa University for her PhD, transfers to Starfleet because Commander Spock—fricking Lieutenant-Commander Spock with his stupid fringe and stupid superior attitude and stupid over-articulation—convinces her how much more she can do at the Academy then at a typical university.  _It would be illogical to attend anywhere else,_ he'd said.

She's still wary of him even after all the work he did to return the Skeleton Scrolls to the land where they belong, but he's all right.

#

Mama sends her shoe boxes filled with soap, socks, sweets—the trifecta of s's; handwritten notes in cursive warning Nyota ' _don't let Starfleet change you and please stay away from those fast-ass American boys with no kind of sense and no home training; TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF; don't be doing everything for everybody like you always do; you got to remember your own needs; and for once in your life get a B.'_

Definitely not in danger of any American boys winning Nyota over. Nyota hasn't had sex in seven years.

#

 **COURSE:** SCI486A – Student Led Research Projects in the Applied and Natural Sciences

 **INSTRUCTOR:** Commander Spock

 **TEACHING ASSISTANT(S):** Cadet Li Xiaodan, Junior Lieutenant Ha'Tal

 **ASSIGNMENT #:** 1

 **STUDENT:** Nyota Uhura

 **PERCENTAGE GRADE:** 83.1%

 **LETTER GRADE:**  B-

 **INSTRUCTOR NOTES:** A very intriguing and intellectually exciting hypothesis, Cadet; however, without sufficient data to support the claims, your essay does not satisfy the standards expressed in the rubric. A more rigorous analytical approach is necessary should you wish to explore this line of inquiry further. Please contact me at your earliest convenience to arrange a time to meet and discuss your deficiency in statistical methodology, as I may be able to provide some assistance to you in this regard.

#

Nyota's comm vibrates. New text message from Carol.

-  _Did you see that Commander Spock put up our grades this morning?_

Uhura's thumb hovers over the holographic keyboard, then she types:

_\- Yeah. I saw. How'd you do?_

A few seconds later, her phone buzzes again.

_\- Better than expected given his reputation. 89. His only comment was, "Sufficient." You? A+ as usual?_

_\- No. Low B. : / I wouldn't usually care. The comments were rough, though. Doesn't help that I've had a shit, shit, shit week._

-  _Sorry to hear that, lady. Want to get coffee tomorrow and talk? This about that thing you were telling me about?_

_\- Yeah. I guess. I don't know._

_\- Endless hugs. Whatever you need, I'm here._

_\- K. I'll text you later. Love you, Carol._

Uhura sets her comm onto the mattress and pulls her knees into her chest.

"Ny? You okay?" asks Gaila from in front their vanity. She's using Uhura's flat iron to press her curls out for the open house tonight. "You smell sad—and angry."

Uhura remembers that it's not just pheromones Orions detect, but neurotransmitters, dopamine. It's her ability to sense mood, more than anything else, that makes Gaila such a powerful seductress. And competent friend.

"I'm fine. It's nothing." Uhura slides off the bed and retrieves her shoes from beneath the bunk. "I'm going for a run." She wiggles out of her skirt, digs around in a pile of not-that-dirty clothes until she finds her grey leggings, pulls them on. "Do you know where my one t-shirt is?"

"Ummm, which one?" asks Gaila.

Nyota presses her hands against her hips and taps her foot. "Don't give me that. You know which one."

"You mean the really, really cute one with the programming pun that you said I couldn't borrow but maybe I borrowed anyway and spilled bleach on, so I ordered a new one and it should come tomorrow and please don't hate me?"

"Unbelievable," says Nyota, but it's not really. They're both pretty bad at boundaries. It was just last week that she'd stolen—borrowed—Gaila's PADD because her own self-destructed when she was rewiring the hardware.

"Here, early birthday present," says Gaila, setting the flat iron down to go grab something from under her bed.

"What's this?" asks Nyota. "Because if it's another vibra—"

"Just open it."

Nyota's not in the mood, not even a little bit, but she takes a seat at the edge of the bed and unwraps her gift. Beneath a layer of tissue paper is a black shirt, white text on the front:  _Boldly Go Down On Me_ , it says, a play on Starfleet's motto. "Seriously, Gaila?"

"You know you like it," she says, and sometimes her smile is irresistible. "Why don't you wear it now? Nothing like a snarky t-shirt to give new life to a jog."

It's true, so very true, so Nyota slides in on over her lycra sports bra.

"Let me tag along?" asks Gaila, already undressing.

"You'll sweat out your hair," Uhura says.

Gaila shrugs, heads over to the chest of drawers and pulls on a t-shirt over her black bra. "Then I'll straighten it again. No big deal. This was just a practise round, anyway. To see if I liked it. And I do. I look hot, right?"

"Always," says Uhura, smiling. She pulls her laces tight, finds her heart rate monitor and sticks it onto her bicep. The sensors transmit data to a log on her PADD, so she can keep track of her progress. She's gotten to the point where a twenty-minute 5K barely spikes her heart rate above 129 beats per minute.

"You are like a machine," says Gaila, rolling her eyes as she walks over to Nyota to remove the monitor. "Whenever you use that thing you go overboard with it. I don't want you to injure yourself, okay? Just an early evening jog. That's what this is. Okay?"

Nyota's too inside herself to argue, so she lets it go. "Okay. Whatever. Come on. Hurry up."

#

They run fast, 10K in about 35 minutes, and it feels like a sprint. At any moment, Nyota will lift off.

She only stops because it finally gets dark, and the chill in the air has her throat and chest burning. "Ny? here, have some of this," says Gaila, handing her a bottle of water. "Take a breath. Okay?" So Uhura inhales, exhales. Sweat runs into her eyes, and it burns. She deserves it, that nip of pain. "Talk to me. Please? And for goodness sake, drink." Gaila nudges the bottle of water toward Uhura's lips.

"I'm okay. Promise," says Uhura, and smiles. "We should get back to the dorm. We need to shower, dress, and if you wouldn't mind going over my speech with me one last time before—"

"You have that thing practically memorised. You're going to do great at the Open House. I'm not enabling your obsessive-compulsive tendencies," says Gaila.

"I know. It just, it needs to be perfect."

#

Captain Pike calls her the Academy's wunderkin in front of some Admiral and a host of ambassadors, but of course, it's a lie. She's— _deficient_  and  _doesn't satisfy standards._

"Excuse me while I go grab a refreshment. I am so honoured to have met all of you," she says, nodding her head before extricating herself from the group of mostly men. The buffet table is packed, but she manages to snag a glass of sparkling white wine from a waiter's tray.

She's about to take a sip when she sees him, Kirk, his blue eyes doing that ridiculous thing blue eyes do. It's like, they don't quite sparkle, just kind of annoyingly insist on their presence at every possible juncture. "Hey, Ashley," he says.

Uhura can't help the way her face breaks into a smile. "Ashley Uhura. You finally got it," she says.

"I knew it," says Kirk. "I've been getting Ashley vibes from you all semester."

"Oh, and how strong are those Ashley vibes in comparison to the Ermengarde vibes you described last week?" Uhura asks.

"Pretty strong," he says, and somewhere along the line, his grin transformed from cocksure to playful.

She's surprised Kirk's even here. The Open House is one of Starfleet's larger recruitment events, but it's by no means necessary. Uhura is only here because she'd been asked to present some of her research. It's a Friday night. If she had free rein to go clubbing, she would.

"You know something, Ashley Ermengarde Uhura? Beautiful name by the way."

"What?" says Nyota. When a waiter comes by to take her drink, she has to resist the urge to grab another.

"You look really good tonight. I mean that," he says. His eyes might actually be smouldering.

"Doesn't she?" says Gaila, appearing from out of nowhere, which she always seems to do when Kirk is about. "I taught her how to do winged eyeliner, you know. But at this point, I think it's fair to say the student has surpassed the teacher."

Nyota is mid-laugh when she sees him across the ball room, Commander Spock, in his dress greys. He is speaking with a human woman, perhaps in her forties? Fifties? It's hard to tell her age precisely given this distance, but she has her arm draped around Spock's waist. A girlfriend? Friend? It is difficult for Nyota to imagine him as anything other than her always-punctual, perfectly prepared stiff professor.

"Ashley? Another drink?" Kirk asks. He's standing right next to her now, and she can smell his aftershave. She knows him well enough that she doesn't resent his nearness, and she smiles up at him.

"Another drink is probably a bad idea," she says. "Or a really good one? I don't know. I don't want to do this."

Gaila grabs her shoulders and gives them an affectionate squeeze. "Sweetie, you are being ridiculous. You are phenomenal and talented and sexy and a great public speaker. Where is all this uncertainty coming from? Before now I didn't think you had a nervous bone in your body, but I can practically smell the butterflies in your stomach right now."

"Could you please stop smelling my feelings?" Nyota says. It's supposed to be a joke, but she snaps it, and sees the hurt flash across Gaila's face. "Look, I'm sorry. It's just. I'm fine, okay?"

Kirk gives her a peck on the cheek, his arm wrapping around her shoulder and pulling her tightly into his side. "You sure you're good?" he asks. "Anything I can do?"

"One thing," she says.

"Anything."

"Plug your ears when they announce my name?"

He laughs and tells her to go get ready. As she's leaving, she can hear him stage whispering to Gaila: "I can't believe she lied about her name being Ashley Ermengard."

#

Her research project is a linguistic family tree of the quadrant, with the intention of using said map to prove the existence of a theoretical proto-Humanoid language.

"Reconstructing this ancient and bygone language on a syntactical, phonemical, and morphemical level is no more possible than recreating the exact conditions that led to the Big Bang, but by tracing the grammatical and sonic relationships between diverse languages, we set ourselves on the path to a true origin of the humanoid species," she says, pausing, conciously slowing down so that she can let them digest.

"I am talking about God or gods, of course," says Nyota. "Or if you want to play semantics—a physical entity so superior to any known being that it (or they) managed to plant the seed for billions of years of evolution on a number of planets, our similarities ultimately greater than our differences."

Nyota watches the audience, gaze flicking to Gaila and Kirk near the front, the both of them smiling and nodding—then over to Spock, who is, as usual utterly blank-faced. The woman next to him stares warmly at Nyota, face open, sweet, calm, serene.

"All languages—the thousands and thousands upon Terra, and the thousands and thousands elsewhere—are all constructed of nouns and verbs, subjects and objects, grammatical realities that we accept as necessary because they're so weaved into our psycholinguistic makeup. There are  _things_. And then then there are what those things  _do_ , or what's done to them. Revealing a humanoid psychological fascination with power: who has it, who does not, wherein notions of power are constructed around who can do what."

She is quite sure she's losing everybody, but she goes on, anyway, trying so hard, and mostly succeeding, to avoid Commander Spock's unblinking gaze.

"My research is in its infancy, I will admit. There is little empirical data to support my hypothesis. But I believe it is only a matter of time before we, Starfleet, the Federation, and the entire galaxy, recognise a common ancestry, and in doing that, we will be that much closer to peace. Thank you."

She nodded her head and left the stage without flourish as the audience stood and clapped. Her face reddened and warmed as she saw Kirk and Gaila, both of them with their arms outstretched. "I understood approximately 12% of that, but of that 12%, 100% of it was awesome," says Kirk.

Nyota slaps him on the back and rolls her eyes, because she hates it when he does his whole playing dumb thing.

People come up to discuss the content of her speech, but Gaila manages to distract every single one with a pheromone bomb, and the three of them escape to their assigned round table unnoticed.

"Cadet."

It sounds like a reprimand, even though she knows it's probably not supposed to be. Nyota looks around to see Commander Spock with the same woman he's been with all night.

"Allow me to introduce you to my mother," he says. "I invited her here tonight because I predicted she would appreciate hearing about your research. Cadet Uhura, meet Amanda Grayson," he says. Nyota is beyond surprised but she tries not to let is show on her face.

"Lovely to meet you," says Ms. Grayson, reaching out her hand. Nyota takes it. "It was such a pleasure to hear you speak. Spock's spoken a great deal about your ideas, but hearing them straight from the horse's mouth is something else entirely. My own field of study is more on the side of learning, education, and cognitive neuroscience, but as you can imagine there's some overlap."

"Of course," says Nyota.

"Spock is very impressed with your work. He won't stop talking about—Cadet Uhura this, Cadet Uhura that."

"Mother," Spock says, then he looks at Nyota. "I assure you, Cadet, that that is not the case."

She has no doubt believing him. They've grown on each other in the last year since her transfer to Starfleet, but she's still not sure he respects her. Is doubly unsure after those comments on her paper.

"He's crazy about your work," says Ms. Grayson.

"I must admit I'm surprised to hear that," says Nyota.

"Don't let his curmudgeonly exterior fool you. I haven't heard him this worked up since a few years ago when he first got his hands on the Skeleton Scrolls."

Ah, yes, the Skeleton Scrolls, the reason Spock and Nyota ever met at all. She takes a moment to think about what her life might be like if he'd never come to Addis Ababa University to give a presentation about his 'Rosetta Stone" decoding program, if a friend hadn't bet Nyota to 'stop complaining to all of us and tell  _him_ how imperialist Starfleet's being.'

"Though my mother exaggerates, as she is prone to do, I must concede to the larger sentiment of her praise," says Spock. "I am curious if you yet have a supervisor for your dissertation or if you have attempted to publish any of your work. It is my understanding that your age might make some journals illogically hesitant to consider your writing—"

"You think my work is publishable?" she asks.

"Yes. I read your undergraduate thesis and also spoke to your supervising professor who saw over the work in your PhD programme at Addis Ababa before your transferred here. She allowed me to see much of what you have produced. She assured me she requested your permission."

Now Nyota remembers the email from Dr. Mehari asking if it was all right to share some of her research with an interested party at Starfleet.

"I wasn't aware you took such an interest, Sir."

He says nothing.

"I'm going to go visit the buffet table and relieve your father, Spock. I can sense he's distressed by some sort of emotional display on the other side of ballroom. Would either of you like anything?"

"Nothing for me, thank you," says Nyota.

"I do not require anything, Mother."

When Ms. Grayson leaves, Nyota prepares for her own exit.

"I'm going to go, Commander. I need to head home. Tell your mom it was great to meet her."

"I will accompany you, Cadet. It is late."

"I'm fine," says Nyota.

"And I would like to keep you that way. I will not attend thee if it is truly not preferred, but chances of violent crime increase significantly in the hours between 10 and 3, especially around university campuses where students are not on their guard."

Of course. Logic. Stupid logic.

"Fine, Commander. Just let me tell my friends, all right?"

She lets Gaila and Kirk know that Commander Spock is going to walk her back home, grabs her light jacket from the coat check, then leaves. It's cold out, that San Francisco Autumn chill, and she just wants to get home as quickly as possible.

The wind makes her hair blow this way, that way, strands of it weaved between her lips. One day, maybe, she'll cut it off. A cute pixie cut. Or a mohawk. Something sensible but funky.

She usually keeps it tied up tight. Brazilian blow outs, mostly. Cornrows are not allowed. Twists are not allowed. And the bitter, nasty, shitty part of her is like, green people, but no cornrows? What the crap, Starfleet? What the crapping crap?

"You are approximately twenty percent less talkative than usual," says Spock.

"Yeah, sorry. Kind of had a rough day," she says, wraps her hands around her arms to ward off the cold.

"I know I have caused you some distress in the past. Is my presence unwanted?"

She looks at him, thinks she detects hurt in his face but is sure she's imagining it. "No. I'm a big girl, Commander."

"I am unsure what that means."

"It's a colloquialism. Kind of tongue and cheek, I guess? It's what you say to little kids when you're trying to encourage them. Oh, you're a big girl, you did such and such all by yourself. Big girl meaning older. Adult. So when adults use it it's kind of sarcastic? Sorry I'm not explaining that well."

"I understand, Cadet. You are suggesting that you would not let the negativity surrounding our previous encounters prevent future interactions, a sign of maturity, and adulthood. Therefore you are a 'big girl.'"

She smiles at the ease at which he breaks down language. Even metaphors are equations to him, and it's beautiful.

"You're pretty good with nonsensical figurative language," she says.

"Many years among Earthlings have refined my skills in that regard."

She laughs at that. "Earthlings? Who says that anymore? I'll have you know that  _Terran_  is the correct term."

"I endeavoured to make you smile and calculated that using the antiquated terminology would do so. My estimations were correct." He doesn't look at her as he says any of this, but she can see a little twitch in his cheek.

"You were endeavouring to make you smile?"

"You expressed that you were ill at ease. It was logical to do what I could to relieve that emotional distress."

"Uh huh, perfectly logical."

She yawns.

"You are tired. You require sleep."

"Ugh. Never. I'll sleep when I'm dead."

"That is…true, I suppose."

She laughs. Again. He's on a roll.

It's cold enough outside that her breaths turn white. Lights from the skyline barely reach the block they're on. The streetlights are dim. She loves that about big cities. It's what she'd loved about Nairobi and Mombasa and later Addis Ababa. The way you can disappear.

It's the same reason she wants to go to space.

On the bridge, everything is bustling. People talking, working, running tests. And just outside, just beyond the glass, a frontier of black starry fields. So quiet she actually swears she can  _hear_  radio waves.

Nyota stumbles a little and grabs Commander Spock's arm to steady herself.

"Sorry about that. A bit woozy. I went for a run before the event and didn't have enough time to eat beforehand. Then I was too nervous to eat anything there." She doesn't know why she's admitting she'd been nervous. She must be really, really tired.

"Would you like to partake in sustenance together?" he asks.

The mess hall is closed. There's nothing but—what—Ramen back at the dorm?

"Might not be a bad idea," says Nyota.

He leads down the street at a quick pace, but slow enough that she can keep up without taxing herself too much in her heels. "Are you amenable to V'Tosh food?" he asks.

"There's a Vulcan restaurant around here?"

He says nothing for a moment.

"I had intended to take you to my flat."

Her arms cross over her chest, then slacken at her sides. Sometimes it's like that when she's with him, like she doesn't know what to do with her own body. Puberty redux—suddenly longer limbs, nowhere to put them. Taking up too much space.

She wishes she had a coffee to sip on coyly and cutely but she's sure she looks a damn mess. The wind blows hard and cold enough that her eyes tear, making her mascara run.

"If you are uncomfortable entering my quarters, I am confident we will find another solution."

"No. Let's do your place. Yeah."

He holds out his arm, she loops hers through at the elbow.

Spock's place surprises her. Between the Expressionist paintings on the walls, the throw rugs with elaborate arabesques, and wooden furniture, his living room feels antiquated and thoroughly un-Vulcan. Where is the stainless steel? The sharp edges and hard lines? So much for white walls and efficiency.

"You are alarmed," he says, as he removes his uniform jacket.

"No, not alarmed," says Nyota, pressing her palm against a book shelf so she can balance to toe off her boots. "Your place is really beautiful, Commander."

She means it. Despite what she considers an almost 19th Century aesthetic, she sees Spock in the details: the cleanliness, the smell of something lemony and caustic in the air, the selection of books on the coffee table.

 _Opticks, or, a Treatise of the Reflexions, Refractions, Inflexions and Colours of Light_ , also,  _Two Treatises of the Species and Magnitude of Curvilinear Figures,_  both by Sir Isaac Newton.

 _The Book on the Measurement of Plane and Spherical Figures_  and  _the Book of Ingenious Devices_ , the 9th Century texts by the Banu Musa Brothers.

Then there's one in Vulcan with too much technological language in the title for Nyota to translate with any accuracy.

"May I offer you tea?" he asks, eyes steady on her as she sizes up the living room. It's nervousness, mostly, that has her so nosy. Easier to look at the fire pot on a side table than meet his gaze.

"Tea's good," says Nyota, voice steady. She doesn't do flustered.

They eat and it's delicious. Kind of like meatballs, but obviously not. Falafel? Hushpuppies? Hoe cakes?

A savoury grain fritter, with spices and finely chopped vegetables, fried. She can't identify any of the exact flavours, but it's good, and the flour has a wonderfully intense aroma. She gobbles it up and isn't embarrassed to ask for seconds. She dips each cake into a sweet-and-sour-type sauce, though it's more spicy than anything.

Nyota uses the serving spoon to help herself to a large portion of noodles from the bowl Commander Spock has put on the table. The texture is different than what she's used to but they're good for sopping up the sauce. In the back of her mind, she wonders if she's eating too much, but she has learned now how to acknowledge those thoughts and then let them go, to recognise them for what they are:  _incorrect._ More than anything else in her life, Nyota regrets all the years she wasted thinking there was something wrong with her for wanting to eat when she was hungry. "I was really surprised about your mom," she says. Nyota's not usually one to initiate awkward conversation, but it seems strange not to say anything to this man with whom she's sharing a meal.

"You were surprised about my mother in what way?" asks Spock. He holds his eating utensils so precisely and delicately. He is a man of decorum and rules. She likes that. She trusts people who follow rules because people who follow rules accept boundaries-her boundaries.

"I guess I was surprised you talked about me," says Nyota.

"I regret if I made you feel uncomfortable."

"I suppose I just thought?,I don't know," she says. Nyota no longer thinks it's ironic the way a linguist as accomplished as herself loses her verbal footing those times she needs it most. Words have always, always, always been little more than a stand-in, an approximation, thoughts and emotions transformed into something lesser, their essential components lost in the conversion process.

"I am willing to wait if you would like a few moments in order to figure out how best to articulate yourself," says Commander Spock.

"I thought you believed…that my thoughts were worthless. So it was surprising to hear what your mother said you said about me."

His face almost crinkles. It's the most dramatic facial experience she's ever seen him make.

"I do not understand, Cadet."

She tries to elaborate, letting herself find the words. "I've just been thinking about that grade you gave me. And the comments."

"I still do not understand. I apologise. I am not always an adept communicator. Nuances of Federation Standard frequently escape me. May we have this conversation in Vulkhansu?"

" _Ha. Though I don't know that it will help."_

He blinks twice.

" _You have no discernible accent."_

" _Hm?"_ she says.

" _I knew from your records that you speak Vulkhansu, or I would not have asked you to converse in it, yet I did not realise the level of your fluency."_

" _We're both full of surprises tonight, huh?"_

" _That is true. Will you elaborate on what you said before?"_

Nyota takes a breath. Vulcan is a language that allows for massive obfuscation, but there's also a lovely, forced directness to it. There's something about verb-first languages that do Nyota in. The action of the sentence is right there at the front. Before the  _who_  there is the  _what_ , and the  _how_.

" _Puthrap-tor nash-veh,"_ she says. She loves that she can leave out the subject— _you._ It's implied, of course. But omitting it lessens the impact.

It leaves the the sentence, literally,  _Hurt me._

_You hurt me._

" _Puthrap-tor nash-veh du uf?"_ Spockasks.  _How did this-one hurt you?_ And he  _doesn't_  leave out that  _I._ It's a small thing, probably meaningless, but the unnecessary declaration of the subject surprises her. He is accepting responsibility. He doesn't even know what he's done.

" _I was being illogical,"_ says Nyota, backtracking.

" _Cadet. I did not ask why you felt hurt; I asked what I did to hurt you."_

Nyota takes a breath.  _"You said I was deficient. You said I didn't satisfy standards. I know you were talking about my research in your comments, but my research is me."_

In Vulkhansu, there's no room for disclaimers. There's no way to tack " _I guess,"_ at the end of a sentence to soften the weight of the words. So she lets the statement stand.

"You are grossly misquoting me," Spock says. "I did not call you deficient. I said that your statistical analysis methodology was too deficient to support your argument."

"I know. I'm just telling you how I took it," says Nyota. Now she's playing with her food, what's left of it.

"Do you require validation?" Spock asks.

"What?"

"I know that humans frequently require external validation especially in the form of praise from their superiors despite obvious objective markers of their success."

"No."

"No?"

"No. I mean. I actually don't care about grades? Or what people think in general? I'm here to do me and that's pretty much it. I guess I wanted you to be proud of my work because I do value your opinion and insight. We've developed an interesting rapport since our first meeting, and even though you're my professor, I consider you a colleague. I guess it was an ego blow, too, because I am not used to being thought of as inadequate. I've always excelled. It's kind of my thing."

"You are not inadequate, Cadet. I did not mean to imply thus."

"I know. I know," she says, folding her hands into her lap.

"I should also say I am quite proud of your achievements. I…realise that my manner of interacting is considered quite harsh by people here. This is regrettable."

With a smile, Nyota tilts her head, looks him straight in the eye. "You're fine. I just have this way of taking everything to heart and assuming people think the worst of me. Comes from always having to prove myself. Weird stuff from my childhood, blah blah blah, you know the deal," she says, even though she's not sure he does.

"You do not have to prove yourself to me. I assure you that in my eyes you are always more than adequate," Spock says, standing up to clear the dishes. When he's finished, he calls her a cab home. She's sad to go.


	10. Lunar Phases

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been forgetting to update on AO3, so here are the last three chapters.

Spock's hold on Nyota is bruisingly tight.

She groans at the swell of contusions purpling her ribs, an unbroken crescent of traumatised skin.

"Spockam?" Nyota says, pushing against Spock's arms. His grip does not yield. He's never held onto her this tightly before.

"Spockham?"

Nyota kisses his knuckles, his forearms, his elbows. The muscles give way a fraction but it's not enough. Only when Nyota scrapes her teeth over the veins of his wrist does his body slacken truly. He growls lowly in his sleep, relaxes, loosening enough so that Nyota can wiggle from his grasp.

Spock reaches out to grab Nyota once she's up, fingers sliding into the waistband of her sleep shorts, snatching the fabric, pulling her back toward the sofa. She falls into his embrace, her back against his front on the couch. He presses his erection into her, nips her shoulder and neck through the cotton of her shirt. "You would leave me in such a state, Nyota?" he asks.

She shivers and pushes back into him.

Spock's fingers find hers, clutch. The surface layer of his thoughts enter into her mind through her fingertips, images of herself pulled from his memories: the darkness of her skin, a result of New Vulcan's unrelenting sun, the fullness of her breasts, the sway of her hips

His memories warp into fantasy: an image of Nyota in a t-shirt and knickers reaching up into the kitchen cabinet, her shirt riding up. Spock comes up from behind, reaches around to rub her through her briefs until she's moaning and wet, widening her stance. He pulls her underwear to the side and enters her, spilling himself into her ten minutes later once she's come. Flips her around so they're facing each other. Lifts her up onto the kitchen counter and has her again.

The image abruptly cuts out, his mind black again.

Nyota turns around on the sofa, sees Spock's open eyes, his breaths coming fast. "Apologies," he says. "It was not my intention for you to see that."

"No, it was really nice," says Nyota, leaning up to kiss his chin. He pulls away.

"It was not nice," Spock says.

She nods and stands up quickly. "Okay. Whatever you say. Why don't you go back to sleep? I'm just going to go use the bathroom."

It's a lie. She's up now, even if she's only gotten two hours of sleep.

"You are coming right back?" Spock asks.

"Go back to sleep," she says. It's a trick she's learned from him, how to  _not_  answer questions.

He nods and rests his cheek on the throw pillow. He's so fucking spent, because after a few seconds, his breaths are heavy and deep, and she knows he's back asleep.

A barely-touched cup of tea sits on the kitchen counter, cold, and she heats it up. Once steam begins to rise, she refills her cup, adds a generous helping of cactus leaf syrup and takes a sip.

The final product is far from the best tea she's ever tasted, but it eases the rawness in her trachea. Last night's throat spasms did a number on her respiratory tract. She'll have to visit Healer T'Suri, who's convinced that the second-hand asthma attacks have given Nyota a type of chronic bronchitis. Nyota hasn't told Spock yet.

Time for a run. Nyota grabs a muddy pair of shoes and slides them on over bare feet. She searches through the wicker basket looking for it,  _the_ t-shirt, one that Gaila gave her many moons ago, before her death. She puts it on as well as a clean pair of spandex shorts and tip-toes through the corridors not wishing to disturb Spock.

The twins are awake. Lantern light shines beneath the crack of their door, and Selik is discussing her plans to re-attempt blueprints for a weather machine. Nyota presses her ear to the door with a grin and listens. Last night had been harrowing for the both the girls, yet here they were chatting as if all that occurred was a rain storm, and now that the thunder had passed, they could speak to each other in a more dignified volume.

The weather machine. T'Pau assures Nyota that it is perfectly normal for Vulcan children as old as and much older than Selik to exhibit strong convictions about their imaginary worlds. Upon first encountering it, Nyota thought her daughter's fantastical belief that she would inherit Storm's powers would make her stand out among perfectly logical V'Tosh, but it didn't. Such fanciful whims were often encouraged in youth, as thought to be the window to a love of discovery and a drive for societal change. Selik's weather machine is proof of the phenomenon. She'd had the idea listening to an old radio episode of Superman. The villain, Lois Lane's Uncle Morton, invents a miraculous device, allowing him to change the weather with the flip of a switch.

It had led Selik to design a course for herself at her school in the fields of meteorology, hydrology, atmospheric chemistry and physics, biogeochemistry, the end of phase one culminating in a practicum project.

Nyota wishes to forget the look on Spock's face when Selik had requested Nyota to ask Maresh if he would be her mentor on the assignment. All of their hands-on projects required an adult guide, leader, or mentor.

 _Why can't your samekh do it, like he usually does?_ Nyota had asked, hoping to undo some of Spock's pain, even though she knew that pain could never be undone.

_Because I wish for Maresh to do it. He is knowledgeable about these matters. He supports my interests. It is logical._

With much effort, Nyota pulls away from her daughters' bedroom door and stops eavesdropping, heads outside so she can start her run. It's not the best idea given how sore her throat still feels, but she's like a leopard in that way. Her spots are here to stay; she will always be the girl who runs.

Above her, there are stars for days. Like its predecessor, New Vulcan has no moon, but if it had one, it'd be a waxing crescent tonight. Thin, tiny, a fraction of its entire self, barely there. But on the upswing and growing. It was hard to imagine, but soon it would be whole again.

Nyota takes off without bothering to warm up first. It's only about 8 kilometres to the southeast foothills, and she wants to get there and back before the dawn.

As she runs, she passes the greenhouse Spock is building for Selik, like Storm's. He hasn't had much time to put a lot of work into lately, but it's gorgeous. Big. The second floor has a glass-dome ceiling, meant to be an observatory for Amayel.

Next she runs past an altar, built by Amayel and Spock together to the old Vulcan goddess T'Vet. Amayel is obsessed with history, with origins, with place. She was born years after Va'Pak, but the loss is heavy in the little girl's mind.

Nyota waits for her mind to clear, but it never does.

She thinks of Maresh. She thinks of what Spock said last night before they realised Selik had run away. He'd asked her if she thought Maresh would allow Selik to go on her  _kahs-wan_ , and commented on how 'glowing' Nyota was when she spoke of him.

He couldn't be more wrong. Maresh doesn't make Nyota glow. He makes her uncomfortable. It's been like that for months now, and though she puts on a brave face for the sake of her career and her family's peace, she knows she won't be able to take much more.

When Nyota hits her turn-around point, she feels a piece of her husband's mind calling to her. It throbs like the early stages of a migraine.

He's awake now. He knows she's gone. He sees that her running shoes are missing.

As her feet kick up dust with each stride, Nyota lets Spock know through the bond that she's all right. She'll be back soon. Despite the reassurances, he continues to beckon her back. When she finally does arrive, out of breath, sticky—her clothes completely sodden with sweat—he's waiting for her by the back door.

"I know," she says, walking around him, brushing his side with her arm as she enters the house.

"What do you know?" he asks.

"What you're thinking. That you wish I hadn't gone running in my condition," says Nyota, grabbing the canteen of ice water on the mantle in the corridor. She screws off the cap and drinks so fast she gets nauseated. She still wants more. Spock hands her another portion.

"I was only thinking that I am relieved you have returned," he says.

"Thank you for the water," says Nyota.

"It is no concern." He's staring at her strangely. Nyota looks down. Sees that the dampness has made her white shirt transparent. It sticks tightly to her skin. She looks gross and unattractive, and the way his eyes move quickly away from her to focus on something else reveals his clear disgust.

"What time is it?" Nyota asks.

"It is 05:43," says Spock. "You should return to sleep."

She wants to protest, to stay up, cook breakfast, be productive, solve her marriage andMaresh and her life, figure out this motherhood thing, et cetera, et cetera, but the rush of serotonin from her run is waning. Adrenaline gone. All that's left is limbs that feel like bars of latinum.

"Aren't you coming to?" she says, when she heads to the bedroom, plops onto the mattress. She lies back.

"Our daughters are awake though they require more rest," says Spock. "I will return to you as soon as they are asleep again."

Nyota hoists herself up on her side and forearm, looks at him in the door frame. He is wearing loose-fitted meditation trousers. "Please don't be too hard on Selik," she says, regretting her words as soon as she says them. She picks up on a tinge of hurt through the bond, the most emotion she's felt from him in months, as distant as he's been.

"I wish only to assess her and Amayel's condition," he says.

She wants to say,  _I know. I'm sorry._ She wants to say,  _You know I love you so, so much, right?_  Instead, what comes out is: "Okay. See you in a bit."

As soon as she covers herself with the sheet, exhaustion overwhelms her.

Last night had been a doozy.

Let it be known, there are few things more humiliating than crying in front of a Vulcan—and fewer still than crying in front of the Honoured Matriarch of the House of Surak.

So yesterday evening, Nyota didn't.

She'd listened quietly, calmly, and respectfully as T'Pau debriefed her.

She'd listened quietly, calmly, and respectfully as a still-sleeping Amayel lay in the arms of her great-grandmother, shrunken and frail and injured.

She listened quietly, calmly, and respectfully as her husband and Selik wandered God-knows-where in the desert, so far from her side.

Several attendants surrounded T'Pau. One of them attempted to help Nyota steady her breathing, but she didn't want to be touched right then. She declined his aid, just short of pushing him forcibly away from her. Instead, she got through the secondary breathing attack the way she always did: by remembering how much more painful and frightening the experience was for Selik.

"Let me hold her," Nyota had said—only half cognisant of the fact that she'd interrupted T'Pau in the midst of her discussing plans to make formal charges against the camp.

T'Pau did not admonish her for the interruption. She nodded and handed over Amayel's tiny form—heavier than a human child would be. A combination of New Vulcan's terrain and atmosphere, as well as Starfleet, had made Nyota strong. Virtually steel. The weight of her daughters never fazed her. There was no strain in her back and shoulders as she cradled her little one. "Hello, my little brave lion," she'd whispered in Swahili.

After she put Amayel to bed, she waited for Spock and Selik's return. She poured glasses of water. Heated  _plomik_ soup. Cut pieces of fruit. It was thoroughly un-Vulcan to play hostess to her house guests in such a way, but her hands needed something do and she did not think going out to the shed and tinkering with her devices would go over well.

So she made tea, then dropped the pot onto the floor and it shattered. She went to get the broom to sweep it up but T'Pau's attendants would not let her.

"You will sit down," said T'Pau.

It had been two hours before her daughter and husband returned, Selik in Spock's arms. The two attendants who found them, S'harien and Zhi'rev, could not disturb Spock in the midst of his healing trance, hence the amount of time it took before they could head back to the homestead.

"Is she okay? Is she okay?" Nyota asked, running toward the door.

Spock reached out his free arm to her, touched her hand with his, sending her a wave of his relief, a trickle of anxiety. She  _would be_  okay, which was slightly different than, she  _was_ okay.

Nyota has faced her fair share of troubles and near-death scares, but last night truly had truly shaken her.

She vaguely remembers collapsing on the couch, too afraid to let Spock ago, holding on to some irrational fear that he might leave her in the night and never return. Turns out he'd been holding on to her just as tightly.

"You should be sleeping," Spock says when he returns to the bedroom from looking in on the girls. Nyota's eyes come open, re-entering the present moment.

"I can't," she says.

"Will it disturb you if I play my  _ka'athyra_?" he asks. "I wish to…settle myself," says Spock. It's vague. She doesn't know what the hell that means. She's lost her instinct for decoding the things he leaves unsaid.

"I would like that, actually," says Nyota. "Might help me sleep."

She lies bundled under the covers as he gets out his hard case from the closet, sets himself up in the chair at Nyota's dressing table. There's the gentle pluck of silk strings as he goes through scales, arpeggios, and other warm ups.

Ten minutes later, already half-dreaming, she hears the song—her song—the piece he wrote for her when they were still so brand-new to each other they had not yet memorised all the ways to make each other hurt. Back in those days when Nyota was still too shy to undress in front of him. She'd lower her head, feel heat rush her cheeks as he unbuttoned her blouse, his eyes never leaving hers as his fingers traced the skin of her stomach with satin-light touches.

The song is called,  _A Boy Young in Winters Journeys up the Mountain._ It is based off of a traditional folk sang, rarely heard anymore, about a young man dying of a thirst in the desert. He sees a temple on the mountain peak and climbs toward it, so his body may rest in the house of the gods when he dies. He reaches the peak only to realise it's not a temple at all. A sorceress had played a trick on him. She collected souls there and fed off them.

Another young woman was trapped in the witch's house, and the two defeated the sorceress together, then lived out the rest of the days in the house.

It reminded Nyota of  _Hansel and Gretel_  with a splash of  _Snow White_.

When Spock told her the story, he said he wasn't certain if Nyota was the young woman who helped the young man defeat the witch, or if she was the sorceress herself, enchanting him with her spell.

The familiar and meandering minor-key melody of the song fills the room, stunning in its compositional complexity. Nyota will never not be flattered that she inspired the piece.

She hasn't heard him play it in a very long time.

"That was beautiful, Spock," she says, throwing her legs onto the floor when he reaches the end.

He sets the lyre into its case. "I am, as you might say, 'rusty.'"

"Well, my faulty human ears couldn't detect any flaws."

"There is nothing faulty about you," he says, standing. He returns the case to its place in the closet. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," says Nyota, even though she knows that's an answer that will him a little bit crazy. What is it he's always telling her? Fine is variable, vague, imprecise, meaningless. Fine compared to what? Fine on what spectrum? What scale?

There are some parts of Spock she will always know like the back of her hand.

"Would it disturb you if I initiated a light meld with you so that I might assess your condition in more objective terms?" he asks.

She must pause too long before answering, because he turns and walks toward the bathroom.

"My apologies. That was an invasive request," he says.

Nyota joins him at the sink and hoists herself up onto the counter whilst he splashes cool water on his face from the clay bowl. He doesn't look at her as he carries out his ablutions, scrubbing soap onto his face. There's a trace amount of shadow covering his cheeks and chin.

"Spock," she says after he wrings out the cloth he'd been using. She grabs his wrist, her palm slipping slightly over the droplets of water still on his skin before gaining proper purchase. "Of course we can meld.  _Of fucking course_. You never have to ask me that," she says. They haven't tip-toed around each other like this since before they first bonded.

"It would only be a light join," he says. "I do not wish to cause you undue mental strain."

"It wouldn't be a strain."

"You feel certain of this? It is just—" says Spock, stumbling over his words. "I must touch your mind to know that you are all right in order to regain a sense of equilibrium. I do not wish to disturb you, however."

His hands grip the rim of the porcelain basin, biceps trembling. He is barely holding it together. She wishes he could tell her what's worng.

Nyota reaches up to his face, still damp, one palm on each cheek. He still won't look at her. She rubs her thumbs over the rough stubble. "You are an agreeable disturbance,  _a'dun_ ," she says.

"Am I?" he asks. His voice is somewhere between sad and accusatory. "I know that I have not been desirable company as of late."

"I just want to know what's wrong lately. Is it something about me? Something I'm doing?"

"It is not necessary to discuss this," he says—snaps. He's hurting and defensive, and Nyota chooses not to take it as a personal affront. "I must work through these deficiencies on my own through increased emotional self-discipline in meditation."

"Yeah, but you also have to talk to me. Me. Remember me? Your wife? Parted and never parted, and yet it's like we've been in different worlds lately. Is it me, Spock? You could tell me if it was. If that's what's wrong, okay, I can accept it, but—"

"I do not understand the query. Could you perhaps rephrase or narrow the scope of the question?" he asks

Nyota nods, takes a mental step back, and starts again. "Is it me?"

"Is 'what' you?" he asks. "To what 'it' do you refer?"

"Am I the one who's been causing your…whatever? Your upset?" Left unsaid:  _your distance, your inflexibility, your unkindness._

"In a fashion, you are the cause, though you are not responsible," he says.

It hurts to have verbal confirmation, as much as she's been expecting it.

"Could you be more specific?" she asks, bracing herself for whatever it is. He's leaving her. He's found someone else. He wants a Vulcan. She's too fragile.

"I have had some epiphanies," he answers, which is definitely not more specific.

"Epiphanies as in?"

"As in realisations that have substantially altered my worldview," says Spock.

"I know what an epiphany is. I'm asking what your epiphanies were."

Tight-lipped silence. Surprise, surprise.

"All right. Nevermind. I think T'Pau said she was coming over at 8:00 to, and I quote, ' _restore balance_.' I'm going to make breakfast and straighten up a bit before she arrives."

She's half out the bathroom before he calls her name.

"Nyota."

"What?"

"The meld."

"Right. Fine." She goes to sit on their bed, her hands resting in her lap.

He sits next to her on the bed, the mattress indenting next to her. "Please do not take my reticence for proof of anything other than my inability to convert emotional data into language," he says. He speaks to her softly but firmly, tone resolute. She can imagine the hard set of his jaw even as she refuses to look at him, her eyes on the floor.

"It's more than that, Spock. You're keeping something from me on purpose. Look, let's just get the meld over with," she says. Nyota never thought she'd speak so flippantly about one of the most intimate ways a couple can connect.

Spock grips her chin and turns her face toward him. "Look at me," he says. She lifts her gaze and meets his stare. "You are so beautiful to me, my Nyota. Always." He positions his fingers over her psi-points then enters her mind, and she doesn't know what she's expecting—but it's not what she gets.

Spock's mind-touch is always gentle, silky, restrained; his consciousness melting into hers so sweetly, then the slow unfurling of his emotions inside of her. But this right here is the eye of a star. It's not unpleasant, but it burns.

She tries to reach out to him, to connect, but he pulls away. Nyota doesn't chase him because there are some lines you never cross and one of those invading someone's mind. Spock is so close, as close as two lovers can be, but it still feels like there's a desert separating them. She wants to sink completely into him. She wants him to sink completely into her.

Then just like that she is cold and alone again.

"You require sustenance, water, and several herbal remedies that will treat the trace amount of infection gathering in your throat. I will prepare these things as well as breakfast and ready the house for T'Pau's arrival. Please, Nyota. Rest. I will take care of you."

She pulls her legs up so she's sitting crosslegged in the bed. "I don't need to be taken care of. I need you to talk to me. We can't keep going on like this.  _I_ can't keep going on like this. Last night our daughter disappeared and we didn't know until she was half way to the mountains. What if we hadn't realised in time?"

Spock takes a seat on the chair across from the bed. "What are you saying?" he asks.

"You know that I love you so, so much. You're a part of me, and so much of who I am is because of you," says Nyota. "But I can't keep this up. I'm so tired. These guessing games are exhausting. It's like I'm living with a stranger." Nyota meets his eyes, struggling to say this next part, the part she doesn't want to say at all but it's been nagging at her since before this morning, since before yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. "I think we both need some time, okay? To figure out where to go from here. I'm going to leave. For a few days. I'm overwhelmed. Do you understand?"

Spock is motionless across from her, his arms behind his back. "I understand."

Nyota slides her hands over the spandex of her running shorts, bites her lips, pinches her mouth to the side. "Okay then," she says, crossing the room toward the bureau. She removes shirts, underwear, leggings then sets them into a pile on the bed. A set of three uniforms hangs in the closet, and she takes all of them. Toiletries go into her travel case.

"Nyota," Spock says from behind her. She turns. He's standing in the door of the closet, eerily still.

"What?" says Nyota. If she weren't so tired, she'd have yelled it.

"Have you given yourself to another?" he asks, head slightly tilted. A stranger watching might think he'd asked her where his favourite tie was.

"After everything I just said, that's all you can ask me?" she says.

"It is a rather straightforward question. Is there someone else, Nyota?"

"I refuse to dignify that question with a response. You are—" she starts, then stops, deciding to pull her punch just a little, "You are really something else these days." She pulls out her large backpack and tosses it on the bed, filling it with various items.

"Your reluctance is all the answer I require," Spock says.

" _My_ reluctance? How can you even say that with a straight face? Not even T'Pau could say something so ridiculous without cracking a smirk. You're the one who hasn't talked to me in forever. You created this gulf. Not me. The only time you talk to me is when you want to tell me how pissed you are because oh—I stupidly let Selik do this. Or oh, I really should not wear such and such out to the market; it's too inappropriate. Do you even respect me anymore?"

"You have never had anything less than my complete respect and admiration," says Spock. A touch of a tremor tinges his words.

Nyota shrugs her shoulders before taking a seat onto the mattress "You just accused me of cheating on you. How else am I supposed to interpret your behaviour when you won't tell me what's really going on?"

"I made a deduction, based on the following evidence. One: you requested a separation. Two: you are a desirable female. It is logical that others would want you, and given our relationship lately, it is logical that you would want another, as well. How is my conclusion about you disrespectful?"

"Well, how about this, Spock? Want to hear  _my_  evidence? Exhibit A: You're an asshole. Exhibit B: I can't take this anymore. I'm fucking gone. I'm sure you'll be glad to get rid of your lying, cheating wife."

His jaw tightens and his lips pinch.

"As you wish," he says.

And then it's—screw this. Screw him.

Nyota opens the side table drawer on Spock's side of the bed, pulls out a book of poetry, a stack of keepsakes and drawings done by Amayel, an expired Federation ID, an old postcard from Nyota when they were apart briefly when the twins were toddlers. At the bottom of the drawer is the letter from the Other Spock, from six months ago. She's known it was there since that night. She hasn't gone digging for it until now.

"Do not," he says.

Nyota removes the adhesive from the envelope, opens it, and takes out the ivory paper.

The writing is in Golic. Hand-crafted calligraphy.  _Her_ Spock's handwriting exactly. Exactly. She swallows as her eyes flash over the date, the address, the salutation.

"Nyota."

She starts to read.

_Dear Spock,_

_It has been thirteen years, two months, two days, nine hours, seven minutes, and three seconds since our last encounter. In this time, I have been tempted to seek you out so that we might share a meal and converse on matters of fascination to us both, of which I am sure, given the circumstances, are many. I have resisted that urge until now._

_I am aware that you have two daughters who are approaching their seventh year, a significant time in the life of a V'tosh child. It is my hope you do not consider it too much of an intrusion that I am frequently in touch with Sarek regarding their welfare. I find myself overwhelmingly invested in their well-being. They are, from what I have gleaned, intelligent, curious, kind, and compassionate children. Kirk informs me that they are already 'little heartbreakers.' This is of no surprise to me given who their mother is._

_You will notice that this letter is meandering. Forgive my lapse in logic and decorum. It is difficult to supply energy to such tasks when you have reached the age I have._

_I reach out to you through this outmoded form of communication because I wished you to have the proper time to consider my request without a sense of pressure to reply in a timely fashion, as I know you would feel to do with any sort of electronic medium._

_I wish to see her, she who is your wife._

_I need not talk to her, if you would not desire it. However, I would appreciate the opportunity to spend some time in her presence, in the same room, if only for one minute, or if you are amenable, for two._

_I have been contemplating writing this letter for thirteen years, two months, two days, nine hours, and seven minutes._

_Peace and Long Life,_

_Spock_

"You would deny me my privacy so brazenly?" Spock asks.

"Why didn't you tell me about this?" says Nyota.

"As you will note, it is addressed to me and not you, and therefore is none of your concern."

"It's  _about_ me. Did you write back? What did you say?"

Why would such a benign request from the Other Spock cause such discord? Is there something more, something more he is not saying?

"I have corresponded with him," says Spock.

"And?" Nyota asks.

"It is private."

"Is he all right? Is he okay? It's strange that after all this time he would ask for this. Is he ill?"

Spock is enraged. She doesn't see it on her face, but the feeling is strong enough that she's cognisant of it through their link.

"Why are you so concerned about his well-being? Is it he who you plan to abscond with?"

Lord have mercy.

"Has he reached out to you personally? Have you been carrying on a correspondence without my knowledge? Have you mated with him who is not me? Have you shared his bed?"

"You're scaring me right now, Spock," she says, her hand firm on the strap of her backpack.

"Nyota, I am—I am sorry. Perhaps you are right that it is best that you go."

Nyota's intake of breath is sharp and painful. "Baby, just tell me what's wrong. Please, please. I'm begging you," she tries one last time. He is shaking.

" _Go_. I could not forgive myself were my words to turn on you again so callously and cruelly," he says.

Nyota quickly stuff the letter back into the envelope, grabs the backpack full of her things and hoists it on.

She goes to the twins' room. She lifts both of them up, with some struggle, into her arms, one on either side. They sleep through it.

 _Where are we going?_ asks Amayel in her dream state.

 _To great-grandmother's. Shhh. Everything's all right,_ Nyota says, though nothing is.

She puts the twins into the back of the flitter, straps them in. Selik whines. So does Amayel.

"Mama? Where are we going?" Selik asks, waking up.

"Just over to Great-Grandmother's."

"Are we spending the night? I did not pack anything."

"There's stuff for you there."

"When is Samekh coming? Or does he have to work today?"

"Samekh isn't coming."

"Is it because he is angry at me regarding my attempted  _kahs-wan_? He wishes to keep his distance?" Selik asks.

"Please just be quiet for one second whilst Mama thinks," says Nyota.

Christ.

"I'm sorry, Selik. I didn't mean that. The answer to your question is absolutely not. Samekh wants to come with us but he's not himself right now."

"He is not angry at me?"

"We'll talk about it later," says Nyota, because she's certainly not equipped to talk about it right now.

Nyota keeps her mind focused, narrow, eyes ahead, mental blocks up.

" _Do not worry, Mama, I am not listening to your thoughts,"_  says Amayel through the bond.

" _Then how did you know I was trying to block you out?"_  Nyota returns.

Amayel gives her mental equivalent of an,  _ummmmmmmmm…_

They pull up at T'Pau's. It's a fortress. Parts of it remind Nyota of Stonehenge, the orderly assortment of gigantic stones, fashioned into basic columns and roofs. The only difference is they're at least ten times the height. The house is built into a curving c-shaped cliff, that juts out into a point at the top.

Vulcans generally take the large, curving staircase to the top, but Nyota isn't at that level. She takes the lift.

"Lady Nyota, your arrival is unexpected. Pardon our lack of preparation," says Varum in thickly accented Standard. He enjoys practising with her—or, as he would say, "finds it logical to take advantages of opportunities to improve his skills in the galaxy's lingua franca."

He as well as another guard rushes to the flitter, helping Amayel and Selik out the back.

"Does Honoured Mother T'Pau know that you are coming?"

"This was all a bit spontaneous," Nyota says. She tries to keep her emotional cool. She's failing.

"We will notify her at once."

Varum casts a glance toward Nyota's backpack, also notices the girls' night clothes.

"You are uninjured?"

"I am," says Nyota.

"Do you require food or drink?" Varum asks.

"No."

"Then I will take you to Mother T'Pau."

"Can I put the girls down first?" she asks.

"That is acceptable."

The fortress is twenty-four stories, the first eight functioning essentially as a museum: displays of artifacts salvaged from across the galaxy. The next 8 comprise the library—rare, physical tomes, collected from the world over.

The following eight are the domestic area. Staff live there. The kitchens. The grand dining room.

The girls' sleep on floor 20. Their chambers here are much larger than theirs at home. They still have only one bed, but it's 'king-sized', though in Vulcan it is called  _kenasu_ , a compound of  _sik'gle na'masuk-veh-lar_. Footrest for giants.

There is a terrarium that covers the length of one wall. Several plants in the window, which is made of stained glass, depicting scenes from Vulcan history.

Nyota sets the girls down, doesn't bother pulling back the blankets covering the mattress.

Varum grabs Selik's oxygen machine. He has no doubt been briefed about what occurred last night. "I will wait outside for you," he says, before bidding the girls a pleasant sleep and stepping back into the corridor.

"Mama?" Selik asks, the face mask that will help her breath covering only her chin right now. She'll pull it up to cover her mouth and nose before she sleeps.

"Mm?"

"Are you certain the reason Papa did not accompany us here is not because he wishes to keep away from me?"

"So certain."

"Are you mad at me?"

"What did I say in the flitter? We'll talk about last night later. It's time for you to go back to sleep," she says. Selik lies back onto her pillow.

"Are you and Samekh getting  _p'pi'lai?_ " asks Amayel.

"What?"

"Are you going to split your minds in half then die?" Amayel says, stare unblinking.

"First off—that's not what p'pil'lai is. Vulcan couples do break their bonds occasionally, and though bonds broken suddenly or without desire from those involved, it can result in mind-sickness, that is not the case in two people deciding they no longer wish to be bonded. But it doesn't matter anyway, because Papa and I do not wish to be unbonded."

"That is not what your minds say," signs Amayel. She's acting more forceful than usual. Her hand gestures break out the tiny frame they usually stay in. Fast and imprecise. "You are angry at Papa."

"This is not for us to talk about right now. I want you to go to sleep. We've had an extremely rough couple of days but I believe that that everything's going to be all right. Read my mind, Amayel. Is that a lie?"

Amayel pauses,then signs. "No."

"So we're good?"

"Just because you believe it does not mean that it is true. People falsely believe in many fictitious things."

"Sure. But the evidence overwhelmingly supports my conclusion."

"Indeed?"

"Indeed," Nyota says.

"Elaborate."

"Your father and I cherish and value each other very much. True or false?"

"True."

"Then that's all the evidence you need. Now sleep."

Amayel frowns, doesn't even try to hide it.

Sighing, Nyota looks for the right words to explain. "You know how sometimes you have to look at something from far away to really see it? Like a birds-eye view of a city. Sometimes you need distance to see the whole picture?"

"Like meditating before making a difficult decision to achieve more objectivity and gain emotional control?" says Amayel.

"Exactly. That's why we're here," Nyota says.

"What is the problem that you require mental distance from? Perhaps Amayel and I can be an objective party. Arbiters, if you will," says Selik.

God, they make her laugh. So much like Spock.

"Thanks, little bird, but no."

"Do you think I do not have enough emotional control to judge fairly? I assure you that I do. I have been meditating frequently. I have been practising. Honoured Great-Grandmother says that I am improving. Do you recall when Maresh said that if I meditate frequently enough I could have powers like Ororo?"

Maresh—there he is again.

Nyota looks at her daughters' faces—Selik's narrow and angular, Amayel's a little softer, less prominent cheekbones, large, wide eyes that speak as loud as any mouth. The twins have grown into themselves so much.

"I realise our lives will always contain a certain amount of discord, but I would like things to return to a marginally more peaceful state, even if it is not a perfect peace," signs Amayel.

Nyota traces the pointy cuff of Amayel's ear with the tip of her index finger. "I know, my love."

"Do you promise you are telling us the truth about what is happening?" Amayel asks.

"Yes."

"The whole truth? No withholding?" signs Amayel, prodding.

"I'm not going to be specific about things that are private and between me and your samekh, but this is the whole truth. We love you. We love each other. We're not always as strong as we wish we were and because of that we make mistakes."

"I think you are the strongest person I know," signs Amayel.

"My sister's assessment is correct," Selik says.

The mattress groans when Nyota sits on it.

"Then trust me when I say I'll get us through this, even if I have to carry both of you and your papa, too. I've survived worse. And so has he. Nothing is more important to either of us than you two, okay?"

She covers the girls with the blanket at the foot of the bed. Kisses their foreheads. Both of them are damp with sweat. One of their bodies' few concessions to their human ancestry. Sudoriferous glands.

"Try to sleep for at least a couple more hours. Then we can have morning meal with Great-Grandmother."

They're already asleep.

She's only been at T'Pau's for ten minutes, but already she feels things coming into much-needed perspective. Whether it's her daughters' inquisitiveness sending her thought process into more fruitful directions, or something else, she's not sure.

She turns the lantern off in their room and shuts the door behind her, Varum waiting for her.

Despite her tiredness, she's wired. She keeps up with Varum's quick, assured steps easily, head held high, no wilt to her body.

The soreness in her throat barely registers. Too much else to think about. That question—how did she and her husband get here? What's happening? It only occurs to her now to actually find Patient Zero.

Eleven months ago she is offered a position with the Vulcan Defence Network in conjunction with Starfleet. She declines. She and Spock are relatively fine at that point. Overworked. Stressed about Selik's first bout of drug resistant lung infection in years. But they're good. Happy enough.

Ten months ago—things are still good. Maybe great? Selik wins several martial arts competitions. Spock is absurdly proud. Amayel transfers to a new school where there are more deaf resources. She designs a study on New Vulcan's  _prorepous_ population, an order similar to Terra's  _rodentia_. Current skin and organ regeneration technology is based off isolating and using a particular set of genes in  _African spiny mouse_ , an Earth species that has the ability regrow entire limbs. Attempts at regenerating hearts and lungs have failed, however. Amayel thinks New Vulcan desert mice may hold genes more adept for regenerating more complex organs. Re-grow Selik's lungs.

Nine months ago—Maresh convinces Nyota to accept the position with the Vulcan Defence Network. Spock seems fine about this? They sort of quarrel about it. Spock wants to make sure she's not being coerced to do something against her principles. Is he jealous? Maybe. If so, it's well-contained and controlled.

Eight months ago—The Vulcan Science Academy's Medical Research Centre reaches out to Spock and Nyota regarding an experimental treatment for Selik. Spock and Nyota both decide against it. Things are becoming more strained. Work is picking up in a major way for Nyota. She is home much less frequently. He is home much less frequently.

Seven months ago—a one week trip to a deep space outpost to test a beta model of her program. The budget allows for only three. She, Maresh, and one other researcher on the project. At the last moment, the third researcher became ill and could not attend, leaving Nyota and Maresh alone for the journey. Spock was definitely…emotionally compromised upon finding out. Nothing too outrageous. A snippy comment. Skipping supper to go meditate. When she returns, things are all right. He has sex with her vigorously and frequently. She recognises that he's marking her, re-claiming her. Then the letter from the Other Spock. The last night they have sex.

Six months ago—Selik's second drug resistant lung infection of the year. It lasts until:

Four months ago—Surgeons cut into Spock and graft some of his lung tissue onto Selik's. Vast improvement. They get temporary leave to take care of her at home. Teachers express concern regarding Amayel's withdrawal at school. Becoming more isolated from her peers. Refusing to engage with other children.

Three months ago—the twins turn seven. Selik begins preparations for her  _kahs-wan_. Spock reveals his concerns to Nyota about allowing her to go. It's the first meaningful conversation she and Spock have since the Letter. He says:  _I have failed to do what is necessary to cure her and in doing so may be responsible for denying her her Vulcan birth-right._

Two months ago—Maresh mentors Selik as she builds her weather machine. Spock grows increasingly distant.

One month ago—Busyness.

Now—here they all are. Last night had certainly been a turning point.

They had held each other close and it seemed like everything would be fine…

But this morning. The love is there. That's clear. She sees it now. Accepts its existence. It was easy to chalk up their troubles to a lack of affection.

Her comm dings. She ignores it, reaching into her bag, fumbling around til she feels it to turn it off.

It dings again.

Again. Again.

"If you wish for privacy whilst you take your call, I am amenable to stepping into a room."

"No, Varum, it's fine," she tells the guard.

He leads her to the lift, and she gladly follows him in. "24," he says, and they begin their ascent. The comm buzzes again, this time more sustained.

This time she picks it up to see who it is, disappointed when she sees Maresh's name on the ID and not Spock's.

"Lt.-Commander Uhura," she answers.

"Yes, Lieutenant Commander. I was calling to inquire after your well-being. I was expecting you eleven minutes and nine seconds ago."

But it's Saturday.

What's Saturday?

Fuck.

Saturday the 3rd.

The Saturday that Shaltra-lan Salvir from Vulcan High Command is visiting to do an inspection on their facilities, investigating the preliminary hardware and examining their progress. He is the Admiral of Vulcan Command and sees to most projects he initiates personally. He's known for being intensely demanding and critical. Nyota had been looking forward to proving herself, especially after she heard he'd been one who fought against her appointment to her position.

To Vulcans, Saturday means nothing. There is hardly such thing as a weekend.

"My regrets, Osu, but I am dealing with a family emergency."

"Is someone's death imminent?"

Got to love Vulcans for getting to the point.

"No."

"Then I beg you to reconsider and attend. Shaltra-lan Salvir will be here in twenty-nine minutes and eight seconds. He will not look favourably upon your absence. Further, there are several aspects of your research only you can explain. What is the emergency? May I be of assistance in some way?"

"It's my daughter, Selik. She had a really severe asthma attack."

"That is regrettable. Her condition requires monitoring?"

"She's stable but as I am sure you understand I am hesitant to leave her at the moment."

Nyota doesn't mention the other elements of discord in her family.

"I will do what is necessary to reschedule the inspection. Peace and Long life, Lieutenant-Commander."

The line goes dead.

Varum is pointedly not looking at her in the lift. They've reached their floor, but the doors aren't opened. He's holding them closed for her.

"It is ill-mannered for your commanding officer to question you in such a way after you told him you were experiencing a family emergency?"

"You heard that?" she asks.

"I did."

"We're both under a lot of pressure."

"Pressure is irrelevant to a Vulcan in-control of his emotions and faculties."

Nyota looks away and slides her phone back into her bag.

"You are uncomfortable because you believe me to be intrusive," Varum says.

Nyota shrugs her shoulders. "Can I ask you something, Varum?"

"Of course, Lady Nyota. And as I have told you before, you do not have to ask me if it is acceptable to pose a query. Your queries are always acceptable."

Nyota takes a second to figure out how best to phrase what she wants to say. After a moment's pause, she comes up with something workable. "Are there any circumstances where it would be acceptable for a Vulcan to touch another if they are not bonded or familiar?"

Nyota expects he'll have to think about the question for a few moments, but he answers immediately and without hesitation. "No," he says.

"What about an accident?" asks Nyota.

"Vulcans do not touch 'accidentally'," Varum says. He sounds ever-so-slightly indignant.

"Never?" she asks.

"Never. We do not suffer the lack of coordination that plagues humans."

Nyota swallows deeply, audibly.

"Were you touched in such a manner, Lady Nyota?"

"Briefly. About a week ago. We were working late. I was drinking coffee. I'd finished it. Whilst it was still in my hand, and without me asking him to, he grabbed it," she says, thinking it best to just put it out there exactly what happened, let him parse what it means.

"Was there telepathic contact?"

"I think I received some sense of what was on his mind, though at the time it seemed like the thoughts were coming from myself rather than him. I'm not really sure. I was left feeling confused more than anything," says Nyota. She looks up at Varum for any trace of judgment on his face but does not detect any.

"It would not be difficult for a Vulcan to manipulate the touch to make it appear as if you were thinking something that you were not; and one who would initiate touch without your explicit consent would not be above such tactics," says Varum.

"It's disheartening."

"To what doyou refer?" Varum asks.

"Just the idea that you can never really be safe from that kind of thing." It had been naïve for her to expect anything else, but she had. Sometimes it feels like she will never learn.

"I, Osu Spock, and many loyal to this House will always do whatever is necessary to insure your safety and well-being."

Nyota nods, anything to conceal her face from Varum's eyes.

"I am ready to see T'Pau now."

Varum says, "Open," and the lift doors slide apart swiftly.

A few of the servants, attendants, and workers buzzing around busily look at her but only for a second before returning to their tasks.

"Lady Nyota," they say, acknowledging her as she walks by.

Varum leads her to T'Pau's study, the room she uses for reading and meditation. It's a small, personal library that's not actually that small: the size of it larger than the house that Nyota grew up in.

"She is expecting you," says Varum.

"Thank you so much, Varum."

"It is my sincere honour to serve. Would you like me to notify Spock of what you told me in the lift? He will deal with it swiftly and decisively. If not, I feel I am obligated to tell T'Pau myself; though I understand you told me that in assumed confidence."

Nyota shakes her head vigorously. "I'll deal with it. Please don't tell anyone?"

"Lady Nyota, you should not bear the responsibility for such things."

"I can take care of myself."

Varum's brow squeezes tightly for a moment, before his expression straightens. "As you wish."

He turns on his heel and leaves her. Nyota rings the bell on T'Pau's office door.

"Enter," she says.

T'Pau is sitting on a stone bench reading from a PADD when Nyota comes in.

"I'm sorry to disturb you."

"Tell me the condition of my great-granddaughters," asks T'Pau.

"Tired. Confused. But healthy. Amayel is no longer in any pain. Selik's breathing is good. I attached her to the oxygen machine anyway."

"And tell me your condition," T'Pau says, still reading the PADD. Nyota doesn't take it personally. There are only 24 hours in a day, but T'Pau is frequently scheduled as if there are 30 or 40 hour days.

"I'm fine."

"Fine is variable," says T'Pau.

Stressed about Salvir's inspection. About Maresh. About Spock. Her entire life. "I don't know, Honoured Matriarch."

T'Pau sets the PADD down. "Two staff members are preparing a room for you. You will go there and sleep and recover. Though you are unable to ascertain your state, I can easily discern that you are malnourished and hungry, overworked and tired. Further, given that you are here, I can posit that you are in some amount of emotional discomfort."

Nyota stands by the door, leans back into the frame. "I don't think I could sleep if I tried."

"What busies your mind?"

"Work, right now."

"Your contributions to the Defence Network brings honour to our House."

It's one of T'Pau's rare, every-once-in-a-blue-moon compliments. "Thank you, T'Pau."

"Your gratitude is illogical. I only speak truths. Come, I will lead you to the room in which you will stay."

T'Pau leads Nyota herself through the various residential wings, back down to the floor where the girls sleep.

"I will send you tea and a light meal. Otherwise, you should sleep. Notify me when you awake." T'Pau leaves without another word.

Nyota fishes her phone out of her bag again, sees the message from Maresh.

_I have delayed the inspection until tomorrow at 7:00am. Is that acceptable?_

Nyota writes back.  _Yes. Thank you._

She waits a few seconds before writing more.  _I need to speak to you about a matter of great importance,_ she says.

She plans to ask he volunteer his resignation. Touching a subordinate's fingers wouldn't be grounds for something so drastic on Terra, but it's a great violation of Vulcan custom.

 _When?_ he returns.

_As soon as possible._

A longer pause, then he writes,  _I will be occupied the remainder of the day preparing for the inspection. Come to the relay station this evening at 22:00. You will be able to do anything you need in preparation for tomorrow, as well._

10 o'clock at night. She rolls her eyes. Vulcans tend to work well into the evening, but the relay station will assuredly be empty by then, at least the section in which she and Maresh usually work. It's so obviously calculating on his part. She hates that she spent most of this year trusting him, for believing  _she_ was the one out of line, misinterpreting his behaviour, projecting her human analyses onto his Vulcan actions. It's worse knowing that he exploited her uncertainty to take advantage.

 _22:00?_ she texts back, hoping the multiple question marks convey her tone, as much as that's possible over written medium.  _I think that's really too late, but I'll be there. I plan only to speak my piece then leave. I have nothing left to prepare for the inspection tomorrow._

Deciding her words are too harsh for, what after all, are rather minor infractions, she adds,  _and thank you again for rescheduling the inspection. His reputation precedes him, and I know that must've been difficult._

It's more than fourteen hours from now until she has to meet him. It will give her time to rest, to get her mind in order, to make sure the girls are taken care of. She'll put them to sleep at 9 or 9:30, as usual, then head there.

As she resolves to deal with Maresh, Nyota feels an extreme lightness overcome her. She flops down onto her mattress. Kicks her shoes off. It's only one of the matters that needs dealing with, but it's a big one. Clearing the air with Maresh may make it easier to speak with Spock. She's been keeping this secret for some time because, a) Spock has so obviously been under stress and hardly needs one more thing to set him off, and b) this is about her, not him. She can handle it just fine. Once she sleeps.

As Nyota's eyes fall shut, her fingers squeezing a pillow, she thinks of Spock and the night she'd followed him back to his place after her speech at the open house, twenty-one years old and so sure of herself, or so unsure of herself. Who could say. Sometimes those two feelings present themselves identically.

She remembers how it felt having someone she looked up to expect nothing from her but academic excellence and stimulating conversation.

Her experiences with Spock made her think that Vulcans in general lacked ulterior motives. But she's since learned that's not true. What she thought was a Vulcan trait was in reality a Spock trait. His commitment to honesty and honour are unrivalled. It makes what happened earlier this morning even more confusing.

Nyota sleeps dreamlessly.

She wakes up at noon to the sound of the girls in the corridor, talking to, she's not sure, is it Varum? No. Another guard? Nyota springs up and goes to the bedroom door. Closer now, she hears that it's Sarek. Nyota's smile appears on her face as soon as she opens the door and sees that the twins have cornered him.

T'Pau really is closing in ranks if she called him here from his latest ambassadorial duties.

"Nyota," says Sarek, looking at her with a look she swears is supposed to mean,  _save me from this mortal coil._

He is holding the girls each in either arm as they interrogate him on his travels.

"Ladies, do you think you can give your grandfather a second to adjust himself before you ambush him?" she asks. Sarek's attendants are standing adjacent to him, still carrying his bags. He must not have gone up to see T'Pau yet.

"An ambush is a surprise attack made by parties who have previously concealed their location, therefore this is not an ambush, as Samekh-al was privy to our location," signs Amayel, truly offended by the comparison.

"Indeed. Grandfather came into our rooms whilst we slept, and we heard him as he shut the door to leave," says Selik.

"I desired to see them," says Sarek, defending his actions, "as well as leave them items I purchased for them."

"Items you purchased?" asks Selik and is immediately out of Sarek's arm.

She runs back to her room across the corridor. Nyota follows her in there, and Sarek and Amayel join them.

"You spoil them," says Nyota, taking a seat on the girls' storage trunk as she looks what their Samekh-al bought.

The first gift is obvious. A large gold cage with a bird inside that looks a cross between a crow and a peacock. All black except for tufts of white on its head. A long, feathered tail. The bird has only one eye, its other one apparently lost. "For you, Amayel."

Amayel runs up to the cage and unlatches the lock before her Samekhal can stop her. "Careful, child, as she has already robbed one of my guards of his fingers. She bites. Hard. I had to use the dermal regenerator, as well."

The bird shrinks backward in her cage and covers her face with her feathered wings.

Amayel reaches out her hand slowly and cautiously, several inches from the birds face. "Amayel. Stop," says Nyota, standing.

Amayel waves her mother away. With the outstretched hand, she begins to fingerspell a message that the bird could not possibly understand.  _"Your fear is understandable, so far from home you are."_

"I am signing with her so you all might be able to communicate with her, too, some day. But she can hear my thoughts perfectly fine, I can tell. And I can hear her mind."

"I suspected you might be able to," says Sarek. "She is highly revered on her own planet. Hunted. They are believed to be oracles. They are nearly extinct. Look further," he says.

Amayel looks into the cage, past the black bird. "Eggs," she signs excitedly. "Seven." She is almost smiling and it is beautiful. Nyota loves to see her quiet girl's light shine.

"They will hatch in approximately twenty-seven days," says Sarek.

"They are all for me to care for?" asks Amayel.

"Yes. The adult birds live forever if they are not killed, but new chicks are hatched very rarely. Once every hundred years were the estimates I frequently heard. These are a rare gem, little one. I know that you will raise them with compassion and care."

Nyota examines her daughter's face, can see the little girl's wheels turning: building a proper keep, securing food, protecting them from the wild  _miyat-lar_ that roam near their property. Of course, keeping detailed records of their growth, their skills.

"Do I even want to ask how much they cost?" asks Nyota.

"No," Sarek says. "My mother has as a result of this purchase cut of my free access to what constitutes the family's endowment."

Oh, dear.

Selik stands quietly near the door, her hands behind her back, her face impressively impassive. Nyota looks away for a moment, back toward Sarek and Amayel signing together, and when she turns back to Selik, she is gone.

"Excuse me for one second," says Nyota. Amayel and Sarek, engrossed in bird discussion, acknowledge her with a nod but do not look away from the cage.

"Selik?" Nyota calls in the corridor. The little girl is half way to the staircase, a guard jogging after her. "Selik, come here, right now."

"I am going to meditate," she says. Nyota's eyes are rolling at that because talk about  _like father, like daughter._ Meditation seems to be their go-to Avoid Confrontation Card.

"No. Where you're going is to talk to me. Come back here."

Nyota can't hear her daughter's laboured breath per se, but she knows it's there. Selik turns and walks about to her mother.

"What do you require, Mama?" asks Selik.

Nyota kneels down so they are level. "An explanation. You didn't even wait to see what Samekh-al got you. It's not like you to run away like that."

"I do not wish to know at the present time," she says, words leaving her lips quickly but her manner otherwise restrained.

"Why not, little bird? You always appreciate Samekh'al's presents," asks Nyota.

"Because I am certain that whatever it is will not compare to those birds. Perhaps that is as it should be. I do not deserve such a fascinating gift. Amayel has consistently proven herself the more responsible of we two. The more mature. She does not need a  _kahs-wan_ to show her passage into adolescence, but were she to do it,she would not only survive but flourish," says Selik, her cheeks flushing green, her bottom lip wobbling before stiffening. "Who would trust the girl who cannot even breathe for herself—the most basic of physiological functions—to do anything meaningful? Not Papa. Not you. Not Grandfather. Not the other half of my heart. It is logical but painful and I wish to be alone. Please tell Samekh-al and Amayel that I am in the library."

None of the sadness and defeat Selik must surely feel colours her tone. She is perfectly cold. Calm.

Selik's eyes meet Nyota's. They do not shy away.

"What is it, Mama? What is there to say? I have spoken nothing but truths. May I go now?"

"I'm not letting you go anywhere thinking such silly thoughts about yourself."

"Mama, please do not—"

"Don't what? Tell you that that I adore you? That even if you weren't one of the kindest, most intelligent, passionate, and determined people in the world, you would be treasured and worthy and deserve only good things?"

Her words don't penetrate, her daughter's let-down air still apparent.

"I wanted to do my  _kahs-wan_. I wanted to prove to you and Samekh that I am capable, that I am an agent, that I am the subject of my own life. I wanted to feel powerful."

"You are powerful."

Sarek steps out into the corridor, shuts the door behind himself leaving Amayel alone in the bedroom. "Granddaughter, I would present you your gift now, if you would find it agreeable."

Selik looks at her samekh-al, then back at Nyota, then back at Samekh-al. "Gifts are childish and illogical. What have I done to be awarded with material goods? I am going to meditate." She speeds away.

"Selik," Nyota calls after her. "Selik, get back here." She starts to jog after her, but Selik breaks into a sprint past the guards, who let her go past without even the  _illusion_ of a struggle. God, they are all so whipped by the twins.

"Granddaughter, listen to she who is your mother," Sarek shouts down the hall.

But like a flash, Selik whips around a corner and is gone.

Nyota's about to take the turn when she hears T'Pau's voice from behind. "Leave her," she says. "The desire to deal with and confront unpleasant or shameful emotions in privacy is logical."

Though it's Nyota's tendency to do that very thing, she doubts not only its efficacy but its safety. Spock's intense desire for privacy, to deal with whatever the hell it is he's going through alone, has cast a valley between them. Amayel's silence about what she suffered at camp is a direct extension of that. Children learn by doing. She sees her parents withhold and so she withholds, too. It's not rocket science.

Now Selik is doing the same thing.

"Last night when I left her to deal with her emotions she ran away and nearly died, so how about no," says Nyota. The few attendants in the corridor do a head swivel. "Sarek, stay with Amayel until I get back." He does the same confused eyelid flutter Spock sometimes does, nods, looks at his mother, looks quickly away, and then goes back into the girls' bedroom.

"Granddaughter by marriage, confronting emotions by oneself is not the same as deliberately shielding them from others. Every young Vulcan on Surak's path will inevitably find themselves dealing with such struggles on the road to maturity. She will not learn if you always interfere with her emotional processing."

"Then I guess she won't learn."

Nyota walks away, catching Selik's trail quickly. She knows all of her daughter's hiding spots.

Selik loves the twelfth floor stacks. No guards. Low lights because the windows are tiny and made of dark, stained glass. It's wear she keeps the most collectible of her hard copy comics, the oldest from 1975, kept in a protective sleeve made of clear, bullet-proof rodinum. Storm's first X-Men appearance.

It was a gift from Sarek two years ago.

When Nyota goes to the Reading Room, toward the coded-locked shelf where Selik stores her comics, she sees that it is empty, and there is no Selik. At least 100 issues gone.

Nyota goes to the work room next, where Amayel and Selik complete their homework, conduct experiments. It's a small, simple space with a few tables and microscopes, a few computer consoles.

Selik is inside. She holds a pair of scissors.

"Sweetheart," says Nyota.

"I told you do not call me that!" says Selik, and cuts through one of the comics. There is already a pile of shredded paper on the floor.

Nyota walks up and jerks the scissors from Selik's hand.

"Why are you doing this, little one?" she asks, taking a seat next to Selik, seeing the pile of priceless, cut-up comics on the floor. The contents of the pile are millions of credits. She pulls her daughter up onto her lap. Selik doesn't resist. She turns to her side and settles her head on her mother's chest, pulls her legs up off the floor and onto her mother's thighs.

"Comics are childish. Storm is childish. I wish to be taken seriously," says Selik.

"I take you very seriously. So does everyone else. You know what Great-Grandmother just said to me? Every Vulcan on the cusp of growing up finds herself at a crossroads such as this. You know what that means? That we recognise you are getting older."

"I do not know how you all can take me seriously when I cannot take myself seriously," says Selik. Her voice is steady but a pitch or two higher than normal.

"Trust me when I say I know exactly what it feels like to have all your power stripped from you. Sometimes others do it to us," says Nyota, closing her and swallowing so she can continue. "Sometimes our minds and bodies do it to us. Sometimes we feel like visitors inside our own skin."

"That is an apt comparison," says Selik. "However, I cannot imagine you powerless."

"Well, I have been. It's an incredibly frightening feeling. "

"Yes," says Selik, pressing her head further into Nyota's bosom.

"I will do what I can to help you find it again, whatever it takes, and so will your samekh, and your sister, and your samekh-al, and Honoured Great-Grandmother, and everyone here who cherishes and adores you." Nyota strokes her daughter's hair.

"I destroyed my comics," Selik says.

"Yeah, you did." Nyota has no words of comfort to soothe that particular ache.

"They were very valuable. They were…important to me, though it is illogical."

"I know they were, little one," says Nyota, continuing to run her fingers through Selik's tight coils.

"I am so stupid."

"You made a mistake," Nyota says, chiding.

"All I do is make mistakes."

"It's the human in you. Sorry. My fault." She's trying to make a joke and she hopes it doesn't fall too flat.

"I would do anything to be just like you."

"How about you do everything to be just like yourself and come join all of us for lunch?"

Selik squeezes her fingers into Nyota's shoulders. "In a few moments. I would like to stay here for a while longer with you, if you do not find it disagreeable."

"I don't."

Selik ends up in sitting in Nyota's lap for two hours, falling asleep there, still so exhausted.

When Nyota takes her back to the room, Amayel is in bed, too. Sarek is sitting in the corner of the bedroom reading.

"It's been a long time since I've seen them both this exhausted," says Nyota, laying Selik onto the mattress.

"Emotional strain can be as wearing as physical strain, especially on ones so young," says Sarek.

"It's good see you," says Nyota. "You've been gone a long time."

"Indeed," he says. "If I have your permission, I would take both girls with me to the Ship Gardens Exhibit tonight whilst the  _Excalibur_ is still in the system. I understand you may wish to take disciplinary action on Selik at some point soon after discussing with he who is your husband, but it is the last evening before the ship will be departing."

The Ship Gardens are a football-field-by-football field sized garden, over fifteen stories, built inside of an old, refitted star-exploratory vessel called  _Excalibur,_  containing botanical specimens from across the galaxy. It takes turns orbiting various planets.

"That's a good idea. Go for it," says Nyota. Something both of the girls will enjoy. Something that will tire them out and distract them from everything else going on.

"I am gratified. We will leave here at sixteen hundred, remain at the gardens for three hours, dine out, and return here in time for bed," Sarek says.

"They won't be too much of a handful?" asks Nyota.

"They have been known to test my competence but I am confident I will persevere."

Nyota is thankful in advance for the alone time. She'll have time to clean herself up thoroughly, prepare what she's going to say to Maresh, maybe call and check on Spock. She nudges on the bond. A far away burning ignites in the corners of her consciousness, but as usual, he pulls away too quickly for her to latch onto it.

She only left a few hours ago. He's okay. He's fine. She gnaws on her bottom lip until the sensitive skin becomes irritated.

After the girls awake, she cleans and dresses them, goes to the kitchens to prepare them a snack. The chefs shoo her away and fix up fried flatbread made out of  _yartik_ flour, a dish that's always reminded Nyota of chapati, though doughier and cooked in a deeper vat of oil. For fillings they prepare various legumes, mashed herbs, dumplings.

She and the girls eat as if their lives depended on it, their first meal all day.

There is a flurry of activity in the corridor, and Nyota stands up, leaving her plate behind on the table.

"Spock?" she asks, still swallowing her food when she runs through the doorway out of the dining area.

It's T'Pau and Sarek walking together down the hall, attendants, as well as what look like lawyers judging by the colours of their robes. T'Pau had meant it, then, when she said she planned to press formal charges against the camp. This shouldn't come as a surprise. T'Pau has never said something she didn't 100% intend to follow up on.

Nyota finishes off the late afternoon meal and sees Sarek and the twins off to their garden excursion. Avoiding T'Pau, she heads back to her temporary guestroom, pulls out her comm.

No messages.

 _Are you doing okay?_ Nyota types. She's about to press send but doesn't. She deletes the message, starts over.

_I love you. How you holding up?_

Too patronising. Delete.

 _I miss you,_ she decides, then presses send.

#

There's still an hour and a half until Nyota has to meet Maresh.

She scrubs her skin raw. She pours about a half bottle of conditioner into her hair, massaging it through the strands. She lets it sit there as she stands under the flow of water, turning up the heat on the water every minute. She is tingling and dark red.

Once the conditioner has softened her hair, she runs through it with a comb, rinses it out before stepping out of the shower.

Nyota plans to straighten it for the first time in two years. Something different. The sonic dryer makes quick work of it, blowing out her curls into something more-or-less straight in less than five minutes. Flat-ironing is harder and takes longer. She's glad her biceps are strong.

Sports bra. Boy briefs. Undershirt. Formal uniform. Top-bun. Moisturiser. Bronzer. Black liquid eyeliner. Blush.

And done. Ready to destroy. She grabs her bag and heads out.

"Lady Nyota."

Nyota looks back over her shoulder. "Varum. Hi."

"You are leaving," he says.

"Yeah. Work. Got to take care of a few things. I should be back in less than an hour."

"I will get permission from Honoured Mother T'Pau to accompany you," says Varum.

Nyota quickens her pace, hoping Varum will take the hint. Of course he doesn't. Vulcans don't get hints.

"I'm fine, Varum."

"The hour is late. Will you be at your workplace alone?"

"I'm fine," she says, heading to the lift.

"Will your Commanding Officer be in attendance?" he asks.

Nyota enters the lift, tells it to take her to floor zero. Valets drove the flitter into the underground garage. "Peace and long life, Varum," she says as the doors close.

It's a short trip to the relay station to meet Maresh. 200 kilometres. Approximately 15 minutes in the flitter. She checks her reflection in the rear-view mirror, the autopilot handling the navigation.

The retinal scanners at each gate and door are asleep and take several seconds to register her presence.

"Welcome Lieutenant-Commander S'chn T'gai Nyota Uhura," the scanner says.

After the retinal scan, she holds her thumb up against the pad, the laser running over her print.

"Identity confirmed," the system says.

She passes by her lab, stops in and sets her bag down. Nyota's workspace here looks nothing like her previous ones have. Everything is alphabetized. Everything is in its place. There are no old mugs of coffee sitting on stacks of papers, or forgotten styluses under a desk. They've turned her even more fastidious than she already was.

She locks her lab and goes to meet her CO at 21:59 precisely.

Maresh is standing with his back to her once she makes it to the main operations centre.  _Her_ operations centre. All hardware the put together and designed herself.

"Lieutenant-Commander," Maresh says, turning to face her. His eyes sweep up and down. He's done that before. She's always chalked it up to him being hyper observant. "It was not necessary for you to wear your uniform," he says.

"I disagree," says Nyota, going over the script she wrote herself in her head.

"You may state the matter you wished to discuss," says Maresh.

She takes three steps toward him, lifts her chin so their eyes are nearly level. "Your behaviour, Sir." She pauses, letting it sink in for him. He waits for her to continue without comment. "You behave inappropriately with me."

"I do not understand. Specify," he says.

"With all due respect, Sir, that's bullshit," says Nyota.

God, it feels good to say that. It's what she's suspected for some time. Her conversation with Varum was confirmation.

"You touch me," Nyota says, referring not just to the finger touch she'd mentioned to Varum, but the way he stands so closely to her when they're working, brushes his hand against her side, her hips.

"I did not intend to discomfit you," says Maresh.

Good, at least he's not denying anything.

"Also bullshit. Sir. You deliberately targeted me because of my vulnerability. My newness here. My foreignness."

"I exploited a weakness in an attempt to secure what I know should be mine."

Ah, the capitalist way.

"At least you're honest," says Nyota.

"Why should I be anything else? You are brilliant and beautiful. You deserve more than an  _ulef kosh-ves_ who would take you for granted and neglect you as he as."

"If you call my husband a half-breed again I won't hesitate to report your actions thus far to the High Command Court. And is that what you think of my Selik? My daughter? Who also has mixed heritage? The girl who trusted you and who you mentored?"

"I misspoke."

"You're despicable." She's lost any pretence of calm now. "I want you to resign."

"Though you are the leader on this project, my contribution as well as my role as liaison between Starfleet and our Council is too great," he says.

"I don'y mean resign from your post. I mean resign from High Command."

"That is certainly drastic."

It is. She knows it is. Maybe she's punishing him for more sins than his own.

"Do you accept?" she asks. Nyota feels a distant tingling in the back of her mind. Pins and needles. It's Spock. He's close by. Outside the building. He won't be able to get clearance to get in.

"Do you?" Nyota repeats.

Maresh seems on the verge of answering when a voice from the overhead comes on, accompanied by an alarm. "Unauthorised entry," it says.

Nyota knows her husband is inside the station. He's coming for her, and he's burning.


	11. Reactive Elements

S'chn T'gai Spock Uhura  
Hgrtcha Clan, House Surak  
Khu'tev'rak Uzh Shi'kahr

19 July 2270

S'chn T'gai Nyota Uhura  
Hgrtcha Clan, House Surak  
Khu'tev'rak Uzh Shi'kahr

My dear Nyota,

I write this letter to you in a state of relative calm. I have meditated aggressively since your departure, and though the peace I have achieved feels decidedly tenuous, it is my hope that it will last me the duration of writing this missive. You deserve me at my most clearheaded.

Regarding the events this morning that led to your leaving, I offer my apologies. I expect neither your forgiveness nor understanding, but I wished to state my case and otherwise clarify my position. My inability to speak has thrust us into marital discord and led you to experience doubt as it pertains to my affections for you. I endeavour here to correct the false conclusions you have drawn based on my admittedly confounding behaviour.

These are the objective truths, Nyota:

I will cherish thee until I am no longer alive to do so.

I will desire thee until I am no longer alive to do so.

I will find thee breathtaking until I am no longer alive to do so.

These facts remain immutable. You are an essential part of my being, and my feelings for thee will never wane. In fact, my love for you is waxing, as if a moon, growing more complete with each passing day. It is regrettable that my nature frequently prevents me from expressing that reality to you adequately.

You once 'joked' that despite your prowess in deciphering electronic signals, you lacked the skills necessary to decipher interpersonal communications. I have found this to be untrue. You are an adept reader of persons across species. Your inability to deduce my internal state has been intentional on my part, and I fear that by not confessing this fact sooner, I have 'gas-lighted' you. Let me assure that it is I, not you, who is mad.

I write this letter to you in great physical agony.

I am unwell and have been for some time. I desired to protect thee from my inner turmoil. You are highly empathic, Nyota. You know this and you know my concerns surrounding it. More than that, you have a tendency to absorb and take on that which you feel and experience it yourself through the bond. I did not wish to feed you my feelings when I knew you would take them on as your own. I would not wish my state of unrest on anyone, especially not my wife.

And do you think I do not know how aggressively you hide the deleterious effects of Selik's attacks on you?

I worry constantly about losing her, and losing you.

Were I a better Vulcan, more in control of my tempers, I would not have needed to drive you away as I did. I would have been able to control my emotions so you would not have had to experience them.

And has Amayel not taken it upon herself to copy my behaviours? Her experiences at camp were a direct result of her refusing to open her bond to us. A father is to be a positive example for his offspring, and instead I have led her down a path of concealing her upsets rather than facing them head on, which is the true Vulcan way.

I held myself at a distance because I believed, and still believe, I will hurt you. You have interpreted our lack of intimacy as a rejection on my part when in reality I am ashamed of the violence of feelings you've provoked in me this last year.

Last night, after you'd tucked Selik in, you came to bed and changed into your night garments. Upon seeing you in a state of half-dress, I wished to lie on my back so that you could straddle my face and grind yourself into my tongue. I thought of this whilst in the other room our child planned to run away; and is it not my fault that she got herself into such a state? I should have been more attuned to her feelings and needs. I have been distracted, and my control is not as it should be. I had hypothesized a self-imposed celibacy would help, but it has only alienated you; and here I am now, so erect that I am in pain, and I have driven away the only person who has ever sated me.

Please trust that I was not in my right mind when I spoke those accusations to you this morning. I have not been in my right mind for some days. Even now, as I type these words, I cannot help but think that you are in Maresh's arms at this very moment, that I must kill him in order to prove my worthiness to you.

Afterward, I would lay you down, kiss you with great vigour, and shove myself into you while I held your legs up by the ankles.

I am obsessed with such images.

I cannot confess the darker of my imaginings, but I wish to, to tell you all the ways I want to corrupt you and use your tight cunt

How is a husband to ask his wife, "Are you amenable to being held down, to having your wrists bound with the force of my grip?" or, "Would it please you to know that I stimulated my penis to thoughts of you riding my fingers on Maresh's desk?" When you orgasm and shudder and clench, your heat and wetness on my fingers are enough to make me come. I have imagined that after I fingerfuck you to climax, you would my fingers into your mouth and lick them until I reach completion. I would spurt my come on Maresh's belongings and then have you again. Tie your hands be hind your back. Get you on all fours. Lift your ass up toward my  _lok_  and stroke myself as the tip of my length touched the crease of your buttocks. I imagine that gasping sound you make when I start to press the head of my penis into your hole. Usually I stop there but in recent fantasies I thrust in hard all at once and fuck you until you are begging me for more, pushing your ass back into me greedy for more of my cock.

I wish to spill my ejaculate into all three of your holes, Nyota, so that you will know that you are mine. You belong only to me. Not to Maresh and certainly not to any other 'Spock.' Me, Nyota. Me.

You are beautiful, kind, outspoken, ambitious, compassionate, driven, and intelligent. I have no right to think of you, as I would have no right to think of anyone, in such a degrading manner. Even as I tell myself this, even as I have tried meditating these new and disturbing thoughts away, I get hard thinking of all the ways once I finally crack—once my control has finally reached its limit—that I will join with you. More than anything, I want to lay next to thee, front to front, and feel your naked body against mine as I stroke you and you stroke me and our tongues touch as we bring each other to mutual release with our hands.

You have left, and you were right to do so, but I send this letter to you anyway, asking you via written word what I cannot ask out loud via comm: and that is for you to come home to me, for you to return. I do not believe I am functioning optimally in your absence. This letter has likely solidified your doubts about our marriage, but you deserve the truth. I hope that I do not disgust you, as I disgust myself.

I feel that I am slipping away. My thoughts scatter and I cannot catch them.

I can think only of my desire for you, and of my wish to rip Maresh's heart from his side.

I do not know from where these thoughts come.

I am sorry for all the ways that I have failed to be the husband you require, but please, Nyota. Please. It is with all my sincerity and all my longing that I ask you to come back. To let me look upon you and perhaps kiss your cheek. I deserve not even that.

Yours always,

Spock

#

He folds the letter into thirds before sliding it into an envelope. He knows not where he will send it because he knows not where she is.

He should call. That would at least offer him the opportunity to hear her voice.

His comm sits on the desktop invitingly. "Call Nyota," he says, and the phone begins to complete the command. "End call," he says, before it fully connects.

He tries twice more but fails both times. Pressing his palms flat onto the desk in his study, he remembers to breathe, to become still.

There is another way to experience her voice. He may not be able to gather the fortitude to speak to her in-person, but there are recordings of her on his computer.

"Lights, 0%," says Spock now that early morning sun shines through the windows.

He returns to his and Nyota's bed chambers with his portable comp. The first video he watches is not one that he has stored. It is uploaded onto one of the social media sites to which she belongs. In it, she's strumming Spock's lute as she hums lazily along. A year ago. Spock remembers the day that he'd shot that. He'd been attempting to program more functionality into Amayel's tricorder and got sidetracked, as he often did, by his wife, choosing to record her

Spock watches all the videos on her page before turning to his own collection. They are marked by date in a folder titled "Video Correspondences between Nyota and Myself."

There are twenty-three videos in the folder, and he clicks on the one marked October 7th, 2357.

The screen stills on a close up of Nyota's face, and Spock presses play.

At first, the video shows only garbled, blurry images, before focusing in on Nyota. "Sorry this is so half-assed. I kind of had a day," says Nyota onscreen. After adjusting the angle of her PADD stand, she changes a setting in the software, causing the image to brighten and become sharp.

"So," she says, then dips her head down, suddenly shy. Her hair falls, obscuring parts of her face. Spock runs his thumb along his computer screen, tracing Nyota's cheekbones and lips. He's watched this video many times over the past thirteen years, but still he is overcome by her beauty. "You're a thousand astronomical units away doing God-knows-what secret mission, and I know over the course of our life together we're going to be apart for way longer than a single semester, but I…Shit," she says. "I'm not this girl. I'm not the sort who pines. I'm not the girl that calls first. Hell, I'm not even the girl who calls back." Her lips tremble as she releases a heavy breath. "I guess this is just my long and drawn out way of saying I miss you." She looks away from the camera, then down: his bright, confident, shining star so bashful before him.

"Sometimes I'm still so ashamed to want you," she says. "It's not easy for me to accept this part of myself." Swallowing, she presses her palms against her thighs. "So I thought this was something I could try to feel more at ease." She brushes locks of hair from her forehead and scoots back. "I know how much you like to watch me, Spock," she says, tongue darting across her bottom lip. "So watch me."

Nyota removes her t-shirt and her bra then props up her head on two pillows.

Her dark brown nipples are already taut. She pinches the left between her forefinger and thumb.

Spock watches as she stimulates her breasts on screen and he cannot help but slide his hand into his briefs. He is hard and already dripping pre-come.

"Remember when you used to have me finger myself in front of you?" she asks, a hitch in her voice. "You loved making me lose it like that, to make me beg, to see me jam my fingers inside myself as fast and hard as I could. What is it you used to say to me, Spock?  _Show me how dirty you are. Show me how much you lust for my lok._  You made me  _crawl_  to you. Did it gratify you to see your former student on her knees like that? Willing to do anything?"

She sits up onto her knees, sets them a foot apart. She moves her hand from her breast down to her stomach then over her panties. Rubs herself over her crotch.

Spock sees the spreading dampness in the white cotton, the silky change in texture as they become wet with her desire. He licks his lips. Seeing her image on screen is nothing like what it would be like if she were here with him right now, but it suffices in the short term.

Nyota rubs her fingers over her clitoris through her underwear with one hand and massages her breast with the other.

"I'm thinking about the time you first slid your cock into me, how I gasped at the stretch of it, to be so filled with you, your length moving into me slow before you removed it to the very tip, then thrust back in," she says. "You laid me on your desk, put my feet on your shoulders, pounded into me slowly at first then hard and fast. I loved hearing you out of breath. I loved knowing that you wanted to wait and have it be special, but you gave up and had me on your desk. I could feel your thoughts where we clasped hands. I still remember what you were thinking.  _Look what your dirtiness does to me, Nyota. Look how you make me lose control ._ "

Nyota is breathless. Her panties soak through and her fingers are slick with it.

"I wasn't on my shots yet, so when you came you pulled out and splashed semen on my stomach and thighs. Then you, then you," she said, her voice breaking as her respiration becomes more and more unsteady, "Then you licked me. I remember how close I was but I couldn't get there and I was so embarrassed, the way I couldn't help but press my hips back into your face as you ate me out. My whole body was shaking then you did something. Do you remember what you did, Spock?"

Yes, he remembers. He remembers.

"You slid your finger, slick with your come and my come, into my ass. Do you remember how quickly I climaxed? How I begged you more even after I'd finished convulsing?"

"Fuck," she says, moaning as she rubs herself. She turns around and gets onto all-fours, pulls down her panties to her thighs. She slides two fingers between her legs and begins to fuck herself with them. "Fuck, Spock, fuck," she says. With her free hand, she grabs a fistful of sheets and holds tight as she loses it. "Wish you were here," she says. "Wish it was you inside me, Christ, you fuck me so good, want you to come inside me, want to feel your hot seeding pulsing deep inside me., fuck, fuck, fuck." Then she cries his name as she tumbles over the precipice.

The video transmission ends and Spock has not found his release.

He rifles through the pile of dirty laundry that has built up in the wicker laundry basket. Somewhere, the logical part of his brain is sending him messages informing him of how utterly depraved he is behaving, but all he wants now is to be wrapped up in Nyota's smell. With a small bundle of her undergarments and shirts in his arms, he heads to the bed.

Spock breathes in Nyota's fragrance, the erection that has not subsided since he first woke this morning throbbing in his loose-fitting trousers.

It is a humiliating and frightening low for him, this consuming need, so overwhelming he does not trust himself around his wife.

With his wife's scent surrounding him, Spock grabs himself again and begins to rub. He tries to think of nothing, to stimulate himself with a mind kept blank. Spock has always believed it somewhat of a violation to imagine someone in a vulnerable and naked state as a means for achieving sexual gratification.

But in this moment, images of his Nyota come unbidden. Her naked body, her legs splayed open for him. Spock sees himself lifting her ankles and feet onto his shoulder and pressing into her slowly, his length going in and out over and over, stretching her with his size, her muscles squeezing him, her moans, the hardness of her nipples.

He can never keep the filthy words out of his mouth when he is entwined with her thus. He loves to press their fingertips together so he can read the less dignified of her thoughts, make her say them out loud for him, prove how much he riles her, how debauched she is when it comes to pleasing him.

As he strokes his cock, Spock imagines what he would do to her were she still here.

Everyone has their proclivities and Spock's is Nyota. The taste of her, the smell of her, the feel of her skin, the softness of her hair. The desperation in her throaty moans when she begs,  _please, please, I'll do anything, please. Let me come._

Is it so wrong to wish to savour her? To make her wait? To bring her to every possible edge multiple times?

Spock strokes himself until come spills on his abdomen, and then he does it again, and again, his need worsening.

With each attempt to relieve his erection, his thoughts grow more depraved. There is no decency inside of him.

This is his Time, he knows, and as he imagines how pleasurable it would feel to bruise Nyota's waist with the force of his grip as he spurted his seed deep inside of her, he understands also that he must stay away from her, protect her from this madness.

After his third unsatisfying climax, Spock feels the heat inside him rise and spread, his thoughts becoming jumbled and lost. Thankfully, thankfully, when he is sure he can take no more, he passes out, dreams and thoughts of the past his only company.

#

Spock's first memory is of his mother, the smell of her like fog. Like that Wet World from which she came. On Terra, water sits in the air, condensed and white, hovering like a mobile.

"Greetings, piglet," Komekh says.

He is not a piglet. He is not a Vulcan. He is not a human. He is one year and fourteen days old and therefore knows these sorts of things.

Blood—red blood—flushes Komekh's cheeks as she removes her head cover, tosses the cloth onto a table.

Pink, sunburnt nose.

Wavy strands of dark hair fall from a bun that has lost structural integrity.

"Did you have an acceptable and logical day? Were you a good boy for T'Ru?"

"Komekh," he whines, and reaches for her from the floor, where he is completing a geometric puzzle.

She kisses him on the cheeks and forehead, holds him tightly.

Then, because it is Friday, the two of them light candles. For Shabbat. An illogical human custom that Sarek allows because he believes it an acceptable sensory experience for Spock. Twenty minutes before the Vulcan sun sets, Komekh asks Samekh, as she always does, if he will join them. Samekh, as always, declines.

"Alright then," says Komekh.

After Samekh leaves, she begins to pray in the language reserved only for such occasions then says, "Lights, 100%." The dark room illuminates, and the orange flicker of Sabbath candles fades into the swath of other photons, less bright now.

Spock touches Komekh's pink, pink cheeks. Then touches his own. "Pink?" he asks.

Later that night, he finds scissors and cuts his cheek then looks in the mirror, expecting to find red blood like his mother's. It is green, however.

"Spock!" calls his father, and tears the scissors from his hand. " _Pi'veh_ , what did you do?"

"Cut," says Spock.

Samekh cleans the cut and rubs the skin with dermal regenerator, puts a bandage overtop and rocks Spock to sleep with a bottle.

#

His second memory involves scissors, too.

He is almost two Standard years old. He has a large vocabulary and eats many diverse foods and is nearly weaned.

The matter of concern is his hair. It is customary at 18 months for Vulcan boys to receive their first haircut in the style characteristic of their people. Amanda does not wish him to cut until he is three, as is the tradition in her family.

But Spock does not have red blood, as his komekh does, and as her family has. Therefore, he must cut his hair in the Vulcan way. He walks into his Samekh's study, climbs onto the chair then onto the desk, picks the lock on the drawer with a pen, then removes the scissors inside.

He jogs to the bathroom. His nanny T'Ru calls him.

Before she can catch him, he is in the bathroom and has locked the door. He climbs onto the sink cabinet and cuts.

His left eyebrow props up in his reflection.

It is done, and he hopes that he is sufficiently Vulcan now.

#

A few months after his seventh birthday, Spock's father invites him into his study. "Sit," says Sarek, taking his own seat behind a desk, his hands folded neatly on the wooden flattop. Spock sits on the stool provided him, fingers interlaced as he sets them into his lap.

"You are engaged to be bonded to L'na Syl T'Pring of the House Ralas."

Spock waits for his father to continue, but he says nothing else.

"I have not met L'na Syl T'Pring but I have every reason to believe that you have secured a logical match," Spock says then returns to his bedroom to monitor the growth of silbium moss in his terrarium.

On the day of bonding, he and T'Pring touch their fingers and there is a tingle of electricity. From her there is mild curiosity, boredom at the ceremony, scientific fascination at the half-human, half Vulcan, a desire to know if any of his interests coincide with hers.

It turns out that they do. They are compatible across a number of points.

T'Pring is a formidable three-dimensional chess opponent and a competent competitor in the games of Go,  _kal-toh_ , and  _pleenok_.

They meet once each twenty-five days to play various abstract strategy games for a period of three hours.

When Spock turns fourteen, his mother suggests that he and T'Pring expand their courtship. They visit the Museum of Pre-Warp Astronautics. Following a visit to each exhibit, they dine at a restaurant that specialises in dumplings. Spock learns her interests. They include trade economics, civil engineering and urban design, and pre-Reform history covering the Red Age, the New Awakening Period, and the Emergence.

Top of her class at the Shi'kar Academy for Natural Science, she has succeeded beyond what was expected considering her mid-ranking House in a nearly extinct Clan.

She sews, knits, and does woodwork and pottery.

Before he leaves for Starfleet, she presents him with a  _ka'athyra_ , one that she has crafted herself. It is made of the finest, dark, sher skah. The trees that supply the wood grow in the mountains on her clan's land.

"Your work is detailed and precise, and I can perceive no faults," he says upon receiving the gift. He strokes the silk strings and the resulting sound is full, lush. "Your skill in carpentry is impressive."

"I am gratified you think so. There is great nobility in working with one's hands. Hands built this city," she says, gesturing her head outside.

They are silent for several moments. Spock replaces the lyre into its fine, hard leather case.

"I cannot stay here," he says.

T'Pring faces him straight on. She has never been one to look away.

"What can Starfleet offer you that the Vulcan Science Academy cannot?" she asks.

"Professors who do not resent my presence—my entire personhood," says Spock. "Is it not logical to attend where one is wanted?"

"You are wanted here," she says. "I desire you here."

T'Pring will not attend an institute of higher learning. Following the conclusion of her secondary education, she will begin work on an engineering project that will extract water from minerals abundant in the range of volcanos outside Shi'kahr. Should she perform well on the project, she will begin work on environmental engineering work on Tetra, a Vulcan Colony in the early phases of development.

"Are we not parted and never parted?" says Spock.

When he'd announced his choice to attend Starfleet to the Board, he had not considered that T'Pring would not support his choice.

"I do not wish to have an absentee husband," T'Pring says.

Spock lacks her bravery. He looks away from the stab of her gaze.

She is thinking of her father and of the mother he left behind to raise T'Pring alone. A transport ship's captain in deep space, she rarely saw him more than once a decade. It is the way of things, but it is a way that has left its mark.

"I…consider you an integral part of my life," says Spock.

"I have made a similar assessment in regards to you." T'Pring is perfectly poised, hair braided up into a high bun, jewellery embedded in the strands.

They conclude their meal peaceably and head to T'Pring's flat. She has only just moved in in preparation for her work beginning in a few months.

He brushes his fingers against hers as they enter through the front door. She turns and looks at him, nods, heads to her room. A thin mattress sits atop wood planks.

She takes down her hair. He has never seen it thus. Dark, almost black, hair brushes against her tailbone. Next, T'Pring removes her necklace. Her sandals.

She is lovely, indeed. He approaches her as she undoes her adornments, close enough that he can see the pulsing of blood in her neck. "Is it your intention to test my control?" he asks.

There is a break in her stoic countenance. A tiny—the tiniest—smile. "Have my attempts thus far been successful?"

"Is that not obvious?" Spock answers, glancing down to the hardness pressing through his trousers.

That night is the first night they join bodies and also the last. T'Pring has made her decision. She wishes their bond severed now, before time makes it more difficult.

"So easily you would have me banished from your mind?" she says.

"No more easily than you would abandon me for Starfleet."

"Is it not enough to know that we will be together psychically? Am I not enough?" he asks.

"Perhaps not, Spock, son of Sarek."

It is a painful loss, but all V'tosh youth between the ages of sixteen and nineteen learn the practise of  _enok-ka-fi_ , an advanced form of meditation that allows one to feel no pain. For the length of his time as a cadet, Spock feels nothing as a result. He learns. He excels. He breaks records. His mind feels like it's not his own mind. It is so far away from him. Mother calls it heartbreak, but Spock rejects this hypothesis. The more reasonable explanation is that he is devoted to his studies.

During his first posting on a research vessel, he feels sensation return. He remembers what it is like to be fascinated by the way that molecules with the same component parts can have completely different behaviours based on their structure. The powdery substance found on the surface of a Telkanis moon is identical atomically to a hard, quartz-like rock native to Vulcan.

It is highly reactive. The moon is all explosions and wild fires.

It is during his stay here that he receives a missive from Komekh informing him of T'Pring's marriage to a man named Stonn. Spock burns the missive in one of the moon's many fires, not from sadness or grief but a feeling of 'good riddance'. It is a relief to watch the flimsy paper disintegrate into asshes,

Later, T'Pring herself reaches out. A call once Spock has returned to Terra.

"I wish to offer my regrets for the way I terminated our bond so abruptly when I did. My emotional control was not as strong as it should have been, and I realise now that I sought to hurt you in the same way you hurt me by choosing to go to Starfleet," she says onscreen.

"I am gratified to hear your voice and to inform you that I feel no ill will in regards to you. It pleases me that you have found someone else who can be the person you require," he says, realising he absolutely means those words, that there is no bitterness as he assumed there would be.

"That is pleasing news," she says.

It is shortly after that conversation that Spock meets Nyota at Addis Ababa University.

Their association is not friendly but he is entranced by her all the same. Like those wild fires on the Telkanis moon, she is reactive and easily set ablaze. Spock learns through her that he has a soft spot for bright, burning things. In a pathetic bout of poetic tangent, he notes that her given name does mean  _star._

He is surprised and gratified when she agrees to transfer to Starfleet under his suggestion.

He is surprised when she is a student in his class and he is exposed to ideas he had not previously considered through her research and writing.

He is surprised by every little detail of her person. The flecks of light in her irises. The set of her jaw when she has proven her point effectively in a class discussion. The pitch of her voice when she becomes frustrated by another's ignorance. She is a proud woman and Spock wonders how she became so.

He wishes to discover more about her thoughts, opinions, and views. What is her family life like? How did she come into her interests? These details he would typically find irrelevant in another, but nonetheless he is curious about them in her case. She provides an intellectual challenge, and when he is around her, he feels under the compulsion of an electromagnetic force.

Spock does not liken it to how he used to feel about T'Pring, or how he feels about his friends. It is a stranger feeling than that. Like he is on high-alert. Hypersensitive. Her presence provokes feelings in him with which he is no familiar. Not necessarily positive. Not necessarily negative.

Simply a disruption.

She does not like him; this much is clear. She leaves his class immediately at dismissal, never lingering to talk like the other students, who have questions about their research or this and that project.

When he agrees with a statement she makes during discussions during seminar, she quickly  _changes_ her opinion. Spock is not used to being unliked, and it is a reality that no longer bothers him. But when it comes to Nyota, he simply wishes to know what it is about him that disturbs her so.

He consults Captain Christopher Pike about the matter over a cup of coffee and plate of pastries at a café near the Academy campus.

"Does she remain upset about the part I played in the Skeleton Scrolls?" asks Spock. It is not logical to speculate. He knows that he should confront Cadet Uhura personally about what upsets her. "Seeing the logic of her position, I did all that I could with the little power that I have in the Fleet to make sure they were returned to their home."

Pike nods, stuffs a bite of chocolate-filled croissant into his mouth. "Did you apologise?" Pike asks.

Spock's brow crinkles. "I did not. I believed the Scrolls effective return to the East African State Alliance was gesture enough to convey my regrets," he says.

Pike shrugs between sips of coffee. "Politics are deeply personal, Spock. One wrong word, one difference of opinion, can be hard to let go of, grand gestures or not. Maybe she thinks you think less of her because of her background. This was the speech where you said that her university was inferior to Starfleet, right? Now, regardless of what you meant…"

"I see now how my words might have had lasting harmful effect, but I never told Cadet Uhura I believed  _her_ inferior, nor have I done anything but convey my deep respect for her intellect and for her thoughts," he says.

"Well, what people think doesn't always line up with reality. And sometimes, you think you're conveying one thing, and people are actually perceiving another. We're flawed creatures. We make false conclusions all the time, right? Even Vulcans make bad judgments sometimes, wouldn't you say?"

Spock considers interactions with his people as well as the last several thousand years of Vulcan history. "Indeed."

"Just be nice to her. Reach out to her. Eventually, she'll get it. I foresee you two working together a lot in the future, and you may be the only one qualified to be her thesis advisor. It wouldn't be good for that relationship to be marred." Pike gestures his hand toward the waitress for the check, and Spock cuts off a piece of cinnamon roll with his fork to bite into.

"Tonight she will be presenting some of her research in a speech at the Open House event. I have invited my mother to hear her. Perhaps that will be a worthwhile opportunity to engage in conversation with Cadet Uhura? I returned her class's first papers back just before this meeting, and I look forward to discussing her ideas. Would tonight's event be an acceptable venue?" Spock asks Chris.

"See, you're getting the hang of it, that sounds like a wonderful idea," says Chris with a smile.

But Nyota seems no more amicable to him after he talks to her after her speech. Whilst she is kind to Amanda, her conversation with Spock is perfunctory. They have only been talking five minutes when she says that she wishes to leave.

He insists on walking her back to her dormitory and through no will of his own—some part of his unconscious must have taken over—he invites her to his flat for evening meal.

And after some hesitation, she agrees.

They talk in an open manner and he gets some indications about why she feels the way she does about him. When she leaves, they part no longer as enemies, but as friends.

She starts to linger after class. She always sits on his desk though there is more appropriate seating available. They debate frequently on world issues. She comes to his office hours. When both are free, they dine together in the mess.

For her 20th birthday she invites him to 'hang out' with some of her friends, which entails a picnic in a park off-campus. Spock is relieved that he is not the only faculty member at the lunch.

When it starts to rain, they all run together to a coffee shop and spend the rest of the afternoon there. It is not unpleasant, and she sits next to him for the duration of their time there.

Her friends give her presents. A credit certificate to a store called 'Sephora.' A necklace and pair of earrings. A hand knitted-scarf. A tin can filled with a particularly aromatic tea. Some candles.

Again, Spock is relieved he is not the only one who thought to bring a gift. He hands her his present last, a small package.

"Ooo, what's this?" she asks, and shakes it next to her ears.

"Though your aural sensitivity is commendable, I do not believe you will be able to ascertain the contents of the box by sound alone."

She sticks her tongue out at him, and the others at the table laugh. Cadet Uhura unfolds the wrapping slowly, then examines the book inside.

The cover is blank and brown, old. The binding is no longer used. The spine sewn together by hand then reinforced with a form of very sticky glue found on Vulcan. Cadet Uhura flips it only, squints as she reads the text.

"Is this a diary, Commander?" she asks.

He nods his head. "Yes. It dates to approximately 1008 years ago."

"Is this Vulkhansu?" she says as she examines the handwritten script, her fingertips gentle as she rubs them over the ink.

"It is believed to be a proto-Vulcan script from a Clan of people no longer with us. I thought you might endeavour to decipher the language."

She flips through the diary silently, her touch careful and precise.

"And do not be concerned that you have stolen something from the V'tosh people. The book has been in my family's possession for some years and I wish to give it to someone who might actually give it the care and attention it deserves."

"That's really something, Commander," says Cadet Marcus, leaning over to get a look at it.

"Yes," says Nyota, and looks up from the diary for the first time since opening it. "Thank you. You are…this is so thoughtful. Thank you. I promise I will take good care of it, and I will return it to you once I have decoded it," she says.

That will not be necessary but he lets the matter drop.

The rest of their time together continues on nicely, and somehow, Spock is last to leave.

He buys Nyota a glass of wine and procures a hot cocoa for himself as it gets late into the night.

"I feel so warm and bubbly, like I can do anything," says Nyota.

"I believe that you can," Spock says.

She finishes her first glass quickly and moves on to the second. "The year is almost over, you know."

"I know," says Spock.

"December means winter break, then I won't be in your class anymore."

Spock takes a sip of his cocoa. "I am aware."

"Will you miss me?" she asks, finger twirling in her hair.

"It is my wish that we continue our association."

She smiles widely, looks down into her glass. "Me, too. I am really glad I came here, Commander. To the States. To Starfleet. And I'm glad you came to University of Addis Ababa and made a complete  _ass_ of yourself, and I'm glad I was my usual ridiculous, self-righteous, indignant, impetuous self, so that we could cross paths. Thank you for being here with me tonight. Thank you for being such a devoted teacher and friend."

He knows not what to say so he nods his gratitude for her kind words. He walks her back to her dormitory, and as Spock is on route back to his own flat, he understands that his feelings for Nyota have veered into the territory of the inappropriate. He wants to be next to her always and that is not how a teacher should feel toward his students. Further, he is six years her senior.

He endeavours to meditate those feelings away, and he does so with some success.

Still, he considers her his friend and he behaves accordingly.

When she's not longer a student in his class following her first semester at Starfleet, they make time to grab lunch or dinner with each other in the mess at least once a week.

He considers her his  _t'kam'la_. Cherished student. He makes an effort to support her in her studies even though she's no longer his student. He helps build her skills in inferential statistical methodology. He is pleased that she has decided to take several statistics courses. He believes it unnecessary, but her commitment to improving her research impresses him.

The summer following her first year at Starfleet, she remains on campus as his research assistant, a role that ends at the beginning of her second year when she becomes his TA for Introductory Xenophonology.

They discuss personal affairs. Their homes and their families and their goals.

He knows that something unpleasant and dark lies in her past, and half of her desire to go to the stars is so she can escape from it.

One night, when they are walking from the relay-lab to the mess for dinner, she asks him about his 'love life' as it were. "Are you betrothed?" she asks, her arms wrapped around herself to stave off the evening chill. It is January, and the night is cold and wet.

"I am not. I was in the past, but that relationship concluded. Her name was T'Pring. We still communicate via the occasional email and video chat, and I consider her a friend."

Cadet Uhura nods. "That's good. How about—you don't have a girlfriend or anything, do you? Forgive me if I'm being too nosy. I just got curious all of the sudden," she says.

"I do not."

"Have you been with anyone since T'Pring?"

He does not know if she means 'been with' in the sexual since—in which case, the answer is yes—or if she means 'been with' in the extended, long, romantic relationship sense—in which case, the answer is no.

"I have not been in a relationship since T'Pring, no. And you, Cadet? Have you been in many relationships?"

She walks a few more steps silently, her boots clicking on the concrete. "Zero," she says. "Well, pretty much zero."

"That surprises me. It is my impression from my observations that many covet you," he says.

"It takes me a long time to feel comfortable around people is all. I'm kind of a shoot-first, ask-questions-never kind of girl. Do you think of her often? T'Pring?"

"There was a time when I thought of her daily."

"You loved her?"

"Yes," he answers honestly. She'd lived in his mind for over a decade.

"And now? Some people say love is forever, that it never really goes away."

"She will always contain a certain amount of importance because I knew her for so long, but my romantic feelings for her are no longer present. She is married now and expecting a child, and I wish her only peace and a long, prosperous life. I am afraid it is someone else much less attainable who fills my thoughts now."

There is a noticeable hesitation in Nyota's next step, a pause before she clears her throat and speaks. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yes," he affirms.

"A doomed love sort of thing? Faulted stars and all? Are they Romulan? Or wait, I know. She is ridiculously rich and you, a poor farm boy, who her father refuses to allow—"

"It is nothing so dramatic as that, Cadet. Come now, we must hurry should we wish to eat before the mess hall closes."

That night, he meditates until dawn. He does not know what came over him that made him confess that small hint of his affection to her.

He endeavours to put distance between himself and Nyota. She continues to be his TA during the second semester of her second year, but he promotes more effective boundaries between them: no more shared meals, no more personal conversations.

If she is hurt by it, she does not show it. He suspects that she understands, that she has known all along.

Still, it is painful when she goes on summer leave without so much as saying good bye to him.

#

There is a 22-day mission to take place over this summer and Spock loses himself in preparations to stave off feelings of missing Uhura.

Starfleet has reserved five spots for cadets who show significant promise, and Spock peruses the roster of those who'se applied and been accepted.

Name: Darwin, Aisha

Major: Stellar Physics

Name: Marcus, Carol

Major: Biocomputation & Nuclear Physics

Name: Kirk, James T.

Major: Political Science

Name: Sulu, Hikaru

Major: History and Astrogation

Name: Yazid, Hawa

Major: Archaeology

They are a mix of rising second through fourth years, and Nyota is not among them.

Spock supposes it is possible that Nyota applied and was not accepted, though the chances of such are quite unlikely considering her accomplishments.

Had she not applied after all? Spock only volunteered for the mission because Nyota mentioned Spring Semester that she would be going and therefore would not be able to work as his lab assistant over the summer.

The chime on Spock's office door dings, and Spock tells the computer, "Open."

It is Lieutenant Junior Grade Su-Laush. She stands at attention, a PADD in her left hand. "Greetings, Lieutenant," says Spock. "At ease."

"Lieutenant-Commander," she says, nodding. Her blood is iron-based, like most humanoids, and despite her blue skin, Spock can see her blush dark red, almost purple. He intimidates her, as he intimidates most people.

He takes a seat behind his desk in an attempt to lessen the effect of his stature.

"I'm here about equipment requests for the upcoming mission on Xigma, Sir. Commander Silko requested I verify each order in person, see what's really necessary," says Ru'Laush.

Ah, yes. Budget constraints. A three-week exploratory and excavation mission on an uninhabited planet, its life-forms all extinct, is not one of Starfleet's priorities.

"Thankfully, we have a little more room than expected," Ru'Laush continues. "I spoke to Uhura this morning and she insists she'll be able to retrofit the old wave compressors with buffers from some consoles not in use, which means the 90,000 credit equipment allowance reserved for her can be split amongst the rest of your team."

Spock knows that he has not misheard, but he questions the Junior Lieutenant anyway. "Uhura? You refer to rising third-year Second Class Cadet Nyota Uhura?" he asks.

Is there an error in the roster? He scans the form on his PADD one more time, confirming that she is not on the list of cadets who will be attending the mission on Xigma-L.

"Ensign Uhura, actually," says Ru'Laush. "She'll be under Lieutenant Saladin's team, if I'm remembering correctly."

Ensign. That is a development of which Spock was not aware. The reason she is not on the list of cadets is because technically she is no longer one.

"You may similarly distribute any credits allotted to me amongst others. My tricorder will be sufficient for my purposes, and I assume there will be a central lab available for use?"

"Correct, but you'll want to sign up for a shift early," she says.

He dismisses her, and with a salute, she leaves.

"Computer, close door."

He hears the click of the dogging mechanism, and he turns on the screen of his computer, opens his messaging system. He prepares to send Uhura, Ensign Uhura, a short video 'congratulations' as it customary for such promotions.

He clicks the record button and begins:

"Ensign Uhura, I have received word of your promotion. I believe congratulations are in order. You continue to be remarkable and worthy of admiration. Live Long and Prosper."

He sends the message and opens up the submission form so he can request laboratory time.

A minute later, there is a video reply from Uhura. Spock straightens, takes a sip of his tea, and presses play.

It takes a moment for the feed to unblur, and when it does, she appears on-screen. It would be illogical to reach out and press his finger to the video representation of her cheek, but exactly how illogical, he wonders? Unforgivably illogical? Yes.

Her hair is in a bun, but it is looser than he's used to seeing it, strands falling around her face. Her shirt is—could one even call it a shirt? There are no sleeves but for the stringiest piece of fabric over her shoulders.

"Mama, I'm coming, one second!" she yells in Swahili, then readjusts the camera and looks at it straight on. "Sorry about that. Hi, Commander. Thank you for your message. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I haven't had any time. I return to San Francisco tomorrow. I can tell you about it in person, if you'd like. I hope you're well. Bye."

The feed cuts off, and Spock clicks replay, memorising each detail of Uhura's face. There is an uncharacteristically thick layer of concealer under her eyes. Usually, she wears none. Dark circles. She has not been sleeping well.

She does not smile. Her manner is uneasy. Is it he who has caused her discomfort?

Spock prepares to send another message, this time taking a breath to relax any tension that might be present in his muscles. "Uhura—Nyota. Is it acceptable for me to call you that as we are off duty? As you are no longer my student no my assistant, and are an official recruit of Starfleet, it seems appropriate. I look forward to your return tomorrow. Would you be amenable to my retrieving you from the shuttleport? I thought that you had not planned to return for another two weeks."

Spock makes no pretence of working whilst he waits for Nyota's response. He watches the notification alerts, immediately clicking open when it comes, then play.

"Yes, Spock," she says with a slight smile. "You can call me Nyota. And I'd love it if you picked me up. Means I won't have to spring for a hovertaxi. I'll message you my flight information. I'm looking forward to seeing you, too, Spock. Okay? I really am. We'll talk later. I miss you."

He replays the message nine times.

When Nyota does arrive the next day, 4:30 in the afternoon, she has a large, black backpack duffel on over her shoulders, another bag over her elbow, a small handbag, and a suitcase with wheels.

Catching sight of him, she smiles, and he is pleased to perceive it looks genuine. Her mood seems remarkably improved from yesterday, though there is still a heaviness to her demeanour.

"Ensign," he says, using her new rank.

Her smile widens upon hearing it, creasing her eyes. "I thought we established we were on a first name basis now?" she says.

"I decided an exception in this case was warranted. Come," says Spock, holding out a hand so that he can take one of her bags. He would gladly accept all of them, though he knows Nyota would not appreciate it. All Academy attendees have learned intense self-reliance, independence. The only limits are those you place on yourself, that is what they tell all first-years, fourth-class cadets during their six-week basic training.

Nyota hands Spock the roller-bag and follows her to his flitter. She is not especially talkative, but Spock is simply relieved to be in her presence. It has only been three weeks. To think had she stayed the whole five, as she originally planned.

"You said yesterday in your message that you would explain your promotion," says Spock, wishing to hear her voice.

She shrugs, her head resting back against the passenger side seat. "I still don't know to be honest. I think since I finished most of the academic requirements before I came here, I was able to spend what was supposed to be class time doing the necessary military, tactical, and physical training. I think—part of me thinks it's kind of political? Starfleet's come under a lot of attack lately about how human it is, to the exclusion of other species, and even among humans, it's not particularly, um, diverse. But honestly, I'm not complaining."

Spock recalls that on his first station, he is one of two non-humans on a ship with a forty-person crew. "Indeed," he says.

"I'm here for two more years taking extra classes, so I'm an Ensign only in name. I admit, though, it feels pretty damn good. And how about you? How've you been?"

Better now that she has returned.

"I have been adequate. Summers allow me time to continue work on personal projects without the distraction of students. How was your summer, besides the obvious elation your promotion evoked?"

She shifts her head to the side so she can look out her window. "Not great, actually."

"You are back early," adds Spock.

"I—yeah."

"Why?" he asks.

She runs her finger over median of the flitter, shrugs. "Because."

"That is a fragment that reveals no information," Spock says.

"Why do you care so much, anyway, huh?" says Nyota. The words strike Spock as combative, but her coy smile suggests she means her statement in jest. "Do you wish I'd stayed gone?"

Spock keeps his hands rested on his lap in the flitter as the car flies itself, unsure of the acceptable reply, deciding ultimately on complete honesty. "I believe you are deflecting because you do not desire to reveal the reason for your early return. You need only say so, Nyota. I have no wish to pry into matters you would rather keep private."

She bows her head.

"You need not hide your face from me," he tells her.

"Not hiding. Just. Regrouping," she says. She lifts her head then smiles at him, composure re-established. "I don't think I could hide from you if I wanted."

"No?" he asks.

"No."

Silence grows between them, their eyes on each other.

"I saw someone I hadn't seen in a very long time and it kind of threw me off. That's all."

"Someone unpleasant?"

She snorts. "You could say that."

"If you wish to discuss another matter, you need only say so," says Spock. "As I stated previously, I do not wish to force you to engage in uncomfortable conversations."

She flips the enviro-controls in the flitter, taps her finger on the glove compartment in front of her. "It's fine. I'm fine. I've just never told anyone, you know?"

Spock nods and makes a speed adjustment on the autopilot. The landing on this model of flitter is manual, and he wants to make sure the incoming velocity is adequate for when he makes his descent.

"Have you ever felt like you're crazy?" she asks. "Like you're remembering everything wrong? Like you made the whole thing up in your head?"

Spock considers the question, and after 2.1 seconds, answers. "I feel that way only when someone else's version of events conflicts with my own, and I have reason to trust their judgment."

Nyota nods her head forcefully. "That's exactly it," she says. "I was just a kid. Children are imaginative. Or maybe it  _did_ happen, but it wasn't as bad as all that, as I remember it. Or maybe I started the whole thing. How can I trust my memory if when I saw him, he asked me…he asked me how I was, what I was studying, have I been well. He was nice. Decent. Like there was nothing between us. Not baggage. No shared history. I just, I'm sorry, Spock. I know this probably sounds like nonsense to you."

Spock remains quiet over on the drive side, his eyes on the airspace in front of them.

"Has my rambling scared you away?" asks Nyota.

"No," he answers.

"Are you sure?"

"I am sure," says Spock. "Of whom do you speak, Nyota?" he asks. "Are you willing to say?"

He begins to land the car though they are not yet at her dormitory. He puts the flitter down on a quiet street just outside the Academy campus.

"My old Track and Field coach," she says, eyes forward. He posture stiffens.

"Is there more you wish to tell me?"

She bites her lip, looks off to the side as a woman on her bike rides by. "Yes."

"Then I am here. You may speak to me at your comfort and leisure."

"I don't know why I suddenly need to tell you this," she says.

She swallows and turns to look at him, a sad smile on her face.

"Would it make you more comfortable to speak together in a different locale?" asks Spock.

"No. I love cars. Especially flitters. You can go anywhere in them. It's like running, but without all the physical work."

Spock is not sure he understands but he nods his head to offer support.

"When I was younger," she starts, "I guess I was between the ages of 12 and 14. To put it simply, I'm the girl who fucked her track coach. There. I said it. It's done."

She gulps a breath and trains her eyes out her side window.

"Shit, say something, please," she says.

What words could he possibly speak? What phrase is adequate response to such a question?

"Spock, did you hear me?"

"I heard you," he says and reaches one of his hands toward Nyota. "May I?" he asks. "May I touch my hand to yours? Only if you are willing and comfortable with such a gesture."

She stares at his hand for a moment before nodding her head and grabbing hold of him with her left palm tightly, squeezing him with all her strength.

Spock sends to her what he can of his sorrow, anger, warmth, admiration, affection. "You did not deserve to have such great harm befall you, Nyota," he says.

Though by the time she spoke her revelation he had intuited what she would say, it was still a great physical and emotional blow to hear the one he cherished so much confess such a terrible truth. He is uncertain that what he expresses to her through the touch of his hand conveys the weight of his reaction.

She jerks her hand away and wipes away a tear that begins to fall from her eye. "Thank you for that," she says. "Do you mind if we just sit here a minute?"

"I do not," says Spock, hoping that he had not unconsciously fed her some of his rage, too…that she would mistakenly feel it directed at herself rather than at the one who violated her.

"I understand if you no longer want to be friends," she says.

"I want no such thing."

"Are you sure?" asks Nyota.

"Yes."

He wishes to tell her that not only does he wish her to remain his friend, but he wants to become more than that to her, as well. That these feelings he has when it comes to her show no signs of abating. Her presence pleases him and it is his goal to take care of her every need. Though he longs to be that man who knows the right words to speak when handling such a confession, he is instead the man who sits quietly and ineffectually next to her in the gently humming flitter.

"Sometimes I think that I got exactly what was coming to me," she says.

"Nyota," he says, unable to find the words to tell her how precisely wrong she is to think that, and unsure if it is appropriate to invalidate her feelings by saying such a thing anyway.

"I know it's not true but I can't help but think it anyway. It was so easy for him to do what he did, and sometimes I make myself sick thinking about those who might've done it to before me, and even worse, after because I said nothing. Because I was too ashamed. I was supposed to be the smart one, but all it took was saying that I was special and I fell for it so hard. Sometimes I look back at my younger self and just think,  _stupid, stupid, stupid girl_.  _I hate you and I'm glad it happened to you because it's what you deserved._ "

Spock wishes to reach out and touch her, to tell her that the rage he feels at her younger self (and by extension her present self), is so completely unwarranted.

"There is no sin is being defenceless, Nyota. All children are thus and that is why adults are commissioned to protect, not exploit them," says Spock. "Were I to introduce to you a child going through such a trauma at the present moment, what words would you speak to her? Would you tell her that she was stupid? That you hate her? That she deserved her fate simply for the tact that her youth and her innocence made her an easy target for a predator who sought to coerce and manipulate to fulfil his deviant and reprehensible desires?" he asks.

"No," says Nyota.

"Then what would you tell her?"

Nyota pauses before answering, her eyes closed. "I would tell her, whoever she was, that she is precious, dear, and worthy of protection and happiness."

"As you are, Nyota," says Spock.

Another tear rolls down her cheek. "Fuck, I can't believe I'm telling you all this, please, Jesus, don't tell anyone, okay? Please?"

"I will not," he says.

"I'm so sorry," says Nyota.

"You have nothing for which to be sorry," he says

"Don't I? I mean, sometimes I guess I wanted it? I felt like I was better than the others. I could be trusted. I was an adult and the others wouldn't understand. They were just jealous because I was so fast. I was leaving them behind."

She looks over at him, her eyes glassy with liquid that does not fall. "I really won't think less of you if you want to cut things off. Our friendship. I promise you I'm not some girl who just goes about preying on her teachers, but yeah, if you feel that way, I understand. Maybe it's true after all, I don't know. Sometimes when I consider how I feel…how I feel about you...I don't know what to think. Maybe it is something wrong with me. Something written in my DNA. I can leave, though. I'll take a taxi the rest of the way."

She makes a move to leave the flitter, but Spock calls her to stay as she opens door.

"Nyota. Please do not take my silence as condemnation. My emotions are quite volatile at this time, and I cannot always give voice to what I feel. Your experience has not diminished all that I know you to be. I had previously considered the adage 'if I could turn back time' to be illogical and overly emotional. I must admit at this time I would do much and give much to have such an ability."

Nyota uses her sleeve to wipe her face. "Can we go back to your place or something?" she asks, then sighs heavily and rolls her eyes. "And I don't mean that how it sounds. I just, I don't want to have to deal with an empty, lonely room and a bed with no sheets, a closed mess hall."

Spock nods. "It is of no concern."

He sets the controls and reroutes the flitter toward his flat. It's only five minutes away.

He prepares her soup and salad once they arrive. They go out to a movie, which turns out to be terrible, but they drink spirits and eat popcorn and chocolate sweets. She leans her head onto his shoulder and whispers into his ear when something particularly ridiculous happens onscreen, and in the dark of the theatre, he lets himself almost smile.

After the movie, they go to a salsa club. Spock pointedly refuses to take part but he watches her move from his spot in a corner table, appreciative of her form and of the music.

After the club, a 24-hour coffee shop.

After that, they are both hungry again, and they eat at a diner. It is 3 in the morning before too long, and Spock knows that Nyota is not anxious to go home, either to his place or to her dorm.

When she is finally so tired she cannot keep her eyes open, Spock takes her back to his flat. He lays her in his bed and meditates for the rest of the evening in his living room. When she awakes at seven in the morning, apologetic, they decide to go on a run together.

Around noon, she is finally ready to go to her dormitory.

"Nyota," says Spock, the rhythm of her first name still unfamiliar on his teeth, tongue, and lips.

"Yes, Comman—Spock," she says, grinning softly.

He pauses to gather his courage, hopeful that this is the right time to pose this question. "Would you be amenable to a personal social call in my company involving sustenance?" he asks, relieved once the words are out.

"Do you mean eat lunch together?" she asks, scanning her key card over the pad by her dorm room. The lock disengages and she pushes open the door with her shoulder.

"Yes. That is what I mean," says Spock. He follows Nyota into her room, a bare, grey-walled double.

"Yeah, we can eat lunch together. I kind of just assumed we would, since we pretty much always do when I'm around," says Nyota. "How about we grab curry from that one take out place? Then we can eat back in your lab. Did somebody already tell you I'm going to try retrofitting the sonic wave compressor with the buffer from those old consoles we used to use in the first-year communications tech class? I think it will save some money and solve some of the transmission problems we noticed before the school year let out. If not, I'll play around with the sensor modules to see if they need to be recalibrated," she says. Her attitude noticeably brightens as she discusses her work, now oriented on a particular task.

Nyota lets her duffel bag slip from her shoulders, and it falls to the floor with a thud. "Does that sound like a plan?" she asks.

She has misread his intentions. Yes, they frequently dine together. Takeout or a quick meal in the mess. He had intended the invitation to be for something more formal.

Two friends. Dining. Formally. Friends.

She is clearly overworked as well as exhausted by her confessions yesterday. He desires to treat her, as a friend.

"I have allowed the robotics club use of my lab for the afternoon," he says, "so lunch there is not feasible."

She sits on her bed, the thin mattress bouncing. "I guess we could eat here then?" she says. "I'm starving. We could order something. And um, you could help me unpack, which I'm sure you're just dying to do."

He recognises her tone as one of sarcasm, but truly, he does not mind.

"That is agreeable," says Spock.

The roller-bag Spock has chosen to unpack contains only food, to be exact, eighty 350-mililiter silver freezer bags labelled  _so you don't starve_. Spock has seen these storage bags before. Insulated simonium. Once frozen, the contents do not thaw unless the package is opened.

"My mom is a little bit over-protective," says Nyota. "And borderline paranoid. She doesn't trust the food in the mess. She also always insists I've gotten thinner when I come back home for short leaves, even though I've gained one stone of muscle in my two years here." Nyota squats and unzips her duffel bag, filled entirely with shoes.

"Is it necessary to order food when we have all of this available?" Spock asks, putting the freeze-bags onto one of her closet shelves.

"It's all meat, I'm afraid, so it wouldn't be too good for you."

"This bag here is says  _sukuma wiki_. Is that not collard greens?"

Nyota nods and undoes her ponytail, sweeps the strands that have escaped at the nape of her neck, and redoes her hair into a low, loose bun. "Collard greens cooked in bone broth. There's probably oxtail in there, too," she says.

"What about this  _ugali_?" he asks.

"Again, cooked in chicken bone broth," Nyota says, shrugging apologetically. "Sorry. When I was vegetarian for a short while at university, my mother sincerely thought I'd joined a cult. She was so concerned. She even had a meeting with our priest. She's kind of old fashioned. Eventually she kind of came around, which means she would pick out the big pieces of meat in food she served me, at least, but her progress kind of plateaued there."

Spock continues to put away the food. "Mothers are fascinating creatures."

Nyota inhales breath quickly through her nose and mouth. Spock identifies the resulting sound as a 'snort.' "Fascinating is certainly one word for it," she says, as she continues to unpack. Suddenly exhausted by her actions, she bounces onto the bare bed. "Hey, come here," she says, pulling her legs up onto her mattress, crossing them in a pose similar to the lotus position utilised in yoga.

He goes to her bed, near the headboard, the opposite of where she is at the footboard.

"You can sit if you want," she says.

The door to her dorm room is wide open, and Spock decides that it is not inappropriate. Though instead of seating himself on the mattress, he pulls out the chair from under her desk.

"I've missed you these last few weeks," says Uhura.

"Twenty-two days, nine hours, and two minutes have passed since our last in-person contact," Spock says. They have not been apart that long since her enrolment at the Academy. Winter break is only a two-week leave.

"Thank you for yesterday," she says.

Spock nods. "Thank you for trusting me with such painful information. I trust that you know I am available to discuss it with you whenever and if ever you wish to."

Nyota's stomach growls and she smiles."Maybe we should order that food." She bounces up, grabs her PADD. "What are you in the mood for? I could go for Altairian, or maybe Chinese? Tacos? Honestly, I could eat anything right now."

They decide on a little 'hole-in-the-wall' with a variety of cuisines from diverse locales across the planet and quadrant. Nyota orders for the both of them: dumplings, paratha, roti, noodles, spicy vegetables, roots mashed into fried cakes, rice, legumes, soup.

"I'm a big believer in leftovers," she says. "My mini cooling unit arrives tomorrow from storage, praise the Lord."

As is their custom, they sit on the floor across from each other, no chairs, a rug their table.

Nyota speaks vaguely about her trip home, switches quickly to discussing how much she can't wait to be on Xigma-L. Spock shares the developments he's made in his research in her short absence. They talk long after they've finished eating, Nyota's back leaned against the post of the bed, Spock again in the desk chair.

At eleven, Nyota's energy levels begin to deplete. Her head bobs back. Her eyelids become heavy.

She hangs on until 12. 1. Valiantly offering her opinions on a number of topics despite her obvious exhaustion.

"I will take my leave now, Nyota," he says.

She makes an assenting sound in the back of her throat.

"Nyota?"

She does not answer.

Spock stands, lifts her onto the bed, which still has not been covered with a sheet. He opens one of her suitcases and finds a thin sheet, covers her with it.

He flips off the light, closes the door behind him, and returns home; again, he spends the whole night in deep meditation.

#

It is Spock, rather than Uhura, who insists they both need rest.

"Fourteen hours of sustained work is more than sufficient, Ensign," he says, using her rank. Spock knows how proud it makes her to hear it.

Ensign Uhura does not hear him. Her forehead furrows, a stylus held between her teeth. The PADD connected wirelessly to the sensor module displays lines of code that she herself as written, and judging by the expression on her face, she is not pleased.

Spock intuits that she is debugging 'by hand,' which means that the various software systems meant to discern mission-critical anomalies had not picked up anything, at least not the one that she was looking for.

Nyota shifts her head from side to side, stretching the muscles of her neck. Droplets of sweat wet her skin, which has turned a redder, fuller brown since their arrival here. It is the logical repercussion of spending a full work day beneath Celta-H's three small suns.

"You are experiencing physical strain," says Spock. "Let us return to base."

"I think I'm okay for at least one more hour? I'm trying to correct the calibration on this thing so it isn't so sensitive that it picks up every little indent in the dirt where an insect has ever crawled. Before, it was effectively isolating the pictograms and other carvings, but since I changed the code to catalogue each unique shape, it's started picking up every stupid crack, every random smudge. I'm wondering if it's not something on the electrical and hardware level, rather than the software level, " says Nyota, brow still scrunched as she examines her code.

It is nineteen-hundred-hours, the sky still bright white despite the early evening hour. Spock wonders if the intense light has caused a disruption in Nyota's circadian rhythm, her pineal gland missing the signal to release melatonin.

He and Nyota had left the base site at 05:00 this morning, had woken up an hour before that. Given human norms, she should be exhausted. And indeed, they had worked through lunch with only a few 'snacks' of flavourless protein bars to sustain them. Whilst the others have taken the last two hours and twelve minutes to explore the ruins in a more leisurely fashion, including a swim in the ravine 1.2 kilometres from the dig site, Nyota remains on-task.

"I understand your wish to complete your task before the morrow. I insist, however, that we retire to the base site. You will not perform adequately if you deplete your body's resources," says Spock.

Nyota puts her hand on her hip, thumb resting on a bit of exposed skin where her shirt has ridden up. "How about a quick break—then I go back to work, and if I can't figure it out in twenty minutes, we can go back?" she says.

"Your terms are acceptable," says Spock.

Nyota removes a small parcel of foodstuff from her pocket and undoes the paper wrapper, takes a bite into something that smells of cocoa, rolled oats, cinnamon. She is silent as she eats, her eyes still on the input feed of the transpose responder, no doubt fine-tuning the algorithm in her head, reconsidering data matrices.

She is gorgeous thus.

"It's a good thing Earth doesn't have three suns. I'd never stop working. It's going to be bad enough on a star ship for me. I won't ever turn off."

Spock unscrews the cap from the jug of water they've been sharing, pushes it toward Nyota as she takes a seat on a rock protrusion, finally taking a proper respite. "Long days upward of twenty hours occur on Vulcan, too, though there is night, of course, unlike here."

Nyota nods, wipes her thumb across a smear of chocolate extending from her lip up her cheek.

The scent of cocoa combined with what Spock now recognises to be Nyota's natural odour is arresting. Spock blinks, then has the presence of mind to dull the sensory cells in his nasal cavity, to inhibit the neurotransmitters that would communicate between his glomerulus and the olfactory bulb in his frontal lobe.

It is not a perfect solution, but it allows him to remain in her proximity without becoming overly intoxicated.

"I love long days. I love sunshine. I love it when I can feel it burning my skin," she says. She licks her lips, but a miniscule amount of cocoa still remains. Then she—then she uses her tongue to lick up the melted chocolate that has affixed itself to the side of her index finger and thumb.

Her tongue actually makes contact with her fingers.

Not just once.

The side of her knuckle is nestled between her bottom and top lip, and she sucks the remaining chocolate off.

"Commander?"

"Yes," Spock says. He wishes it were practical to dull his visual perception in the same way he'd dulled his olfactory senses.

"Are you all right, Sir?" she asks.

Spock is not certain that he is.

"I am adequate," says Spock.

Nyota nods. "Okay," she says, though Spock can discern the scepticism on her face. "Perhaps you were right about returning now before it gets much later. I wasn't even thinking about how tired you must be, too. Come on, let's go."

She pulls her right arm across her chest, elongating the muscles, then switches to do the same to her left.

It's a two kilometre walk back to the base site, a far enough distance away from the narrow, shallow canyon where they're doing their research so that their equipment doesn't interfere with the various sensors and other tech in use.

They reach base and part ways, Nyota to go shower, Spock to meditate.

The camp is under a small, glass-like dome, meant to create the illusion of darkness and night so everyone might sleep properly on this so-called sun planet.

Spock recalls various conversations he has had with Nyota as he lights his asenoi, letting his body relax as the scented smoke fills his tent.

Spock begins a simple recitation in an attempt to centre himself, lets his consciousness shrink until it is nothing but a black dot, barely self-aware. He is but a primitive things in moments like this. He does not even respond to light and dark, to sound, to touch. He simply, is.

After two hours in this state, feeling more in control, he awakens from the semi-trance.

He requires sustenance in the form of food and water. The base camp is silent when he steps out of his tent, exhausted soldiers and researchers deeply asleep. Toward the centre, there is a rudimentary replicator, and Spock requests porridge. He eats it, as well as some  _kov-sayas_  butter he'd had stored in his luggage. Nut butter is a Terran invention but it has spread to Vulcan as well. It has become a rather popular meal in and of itself, though replaced with Vulcan nuts and legumes, of course.

After he's finished, it occurs to him that Nyota might have gone directly to sleep following her return to camp, given the amount she'd worked. He will stop by her tent to ascertain her well-being. Perhaps she is awake and hungry, but too tired to secure anything for herself. He can be of assistance.

Those here in a research rather than military capacity—as Nyota is—are located in barracks on the opposite side of the camp from Spock.

Her tent is unzipped, open, but no artificial light is on.

"Ensign Uhura?" he says, using her formal address in case anyone is awake to overhear. The only sound, however, is a rustle of wind.

He sees footsteps in the dirt and follows them. Follows for three kilometres until he reaches the same tunnels from which they left, though at a point farther away. Spock enters inside from a small opening. He hears water splash and follows the sound. It is almost completely dark, compared to just outside, where at least one of the suns of the planet is still shining brightly. As he takes careful steps forward through the tunnel, his eyes begin to adjust, and up ahead, he makes out the white glow of a flash light.

"Ensign Uhura," he calls out again.

The sound of splashing water ceases. "Who's there?" she asks, afraid.

"It is only I, Nyota" he says, going toward her—not sure whether she has fallen or gotten herself trapped. "I am coming for you."

The light from the lantern brightens as he approaches, and he can see the section of tunnel clearly. On a boulder sits Nyota's clothes. Shirt, jean shorts, boots, hat. Undergarments. She is standing in water a few feet below, one of the planet's rumoured hot springs. The tunnels are built through and around them. Steam rises, ensconcing Nyota in an ethereal cloud, and she looks like something otherworldly.

Nyota faces away from him, her body in the water up to her waist. He can see her bare back, her lose wet hair hanging over her shoulder. He has never seen it outside of the constrains of pins, clips, or elastics.

"Apologies," he says, frozen in place. "I will leave you to your swim," he says, though he makes no actual movements to do so, his body completely taken and stilled.

She turns her head and catches Spock's eyes, her back still to him even as she faces him. "You can stay if you want," she says. "I just thought the hot water might soothe my muscles."

She looks down, her braveness leaving her, her voice quiet and shaking with nerves.

She sinks down into the water to her neck and turns so her front is to him.

Spock can see a hint of her bare shoulders, collar bone, the inkling of the rest of her chest.

Swallowing, he turns away, but his eyes land on her clothing, where he sees her white underwear.

"Nyota," says Spock. He'd intended to say something else, something more substantial, but he can only speak her name.

She swims through the hot spring toward him. Her head disappears under the water as she moves, and Spock can see the back of her graceful form as she glides. Her shoulder blades and ass peak out of the water before she emerges near the shore.

He is uncertain if this is a seduction. If it is, her attempts to unravel him are successful. If it is not, he is responding inappropriately and he should leave now before he should feel moved to do something untoward. Something that might betray her trust.

"Do you," she starts, "Do you want to come in to the water?"

"Nyota, it would not be appropriate," he says.

Her face flushes and she bites her bottom lip. She is humiliated, but she should not be. It is he who should be ashamed. Upon realising she was in no danger—upon seeing her clothes on the boulder and understanding the situation for what it was—he should have turned to leave, never brought his eyes to her body, which in glimpses he saw was beautiful, perfect, striking.

Swallowing, he removes his eyes from the hot spring, fixing them instead to the wall of the cave.

"Don't you want me?" she asks.

"Please do not ask me that, Nyota," says Spock.

Frowning, she nods, swims away deeper into the spring, which foams with steaming water.

"Nyota, return here at once," he says, but she keeps swimming, turning down an enclave so she is out of visual range.

Spock removes his shirt, shoes, trousers, socks. Black boxers still on, he dives into the water and swims after her.

The saltiness of the water helps him stay easily afloat, and he moves quickly through it, pushing water behind him with each stroke, kicking hard.

He finds her quickly. She is resting against a rocky ledge, breathing hard, her back to him.

"Nyota."

"Please, leave me alone," she says.

"I will not leave you here in this emotional state."

"I'm fine."

The water is shallow enough that he can walk, but deep enough that he is mostly submerged, up to his neck. Nyota is likely unable to touch the bottom here.

"Please, Spock, can we just forget that happened? I'm so, so sorry."

"I will endeavour to put it from my mind if that is your desire, though I will have much difficulty doing so." Nyota's shoulders slouch. She leans her forehead into the ledge, her breaths beginning to even.

"May I see you fully?" he asks. "Will you face me?"

"Is that what you want?"

Yes, yes, yes. Most certainly. Yes.

"It is," he says.

"Are you sure?"

"Please, Nyota."

She hoists herself up onto the rock, her legs crossed, but he can see her bare chest, the triangle of hair covering her mound.

"It is not logical for one to be as beautiful as thee," he says, switching to Vulkhansu. "Will you come to me?" asks Spock.

She slips back down into the water, causing a small splash, and she swims to him. He meets her half way, crossing the few short feet of the enclave. He was right that she cannot touch. She treads water before him.

"May I touch thee?"

She nods her head then she is in his arms. Nyota is in his arms. Her body is in his arms. How is it possible for skin to be so soft?

He wraps his arms around her waist, holds her so that she does not have to work her legs to stay above water. Spock does what he can to avoid empathic connection, but there's so much input and he cannot organise it all. The smell of her, the feel of her skin, her breasts brushing against his chest, nipples hard despite the warm temperature of the water, the heaviness of her breaths, the look of her hair, heavy and wet and wavy. With all that to contend with, it is all he can do not to bombard her with his own perverted thoughts.

Spock senses her nervousness, trepidation, confusion. Her need.

She tilts her head up and kisses his cheek. Her lips are trembling, and they shake against his skin, warm and damp and plump and soft.

"Again," he says.

She presses her lips to his cheek again, this time a little lower, almost to his chin.

"Does that feel okay?" she asks.

"Yes." God, yes.

She reaches up her hands and cups his chin, kisses him on the lips. A soft peck, then another, then another, each one expanding in length, their mouths closed.

He flicks out his tongue to lick her bottom lip. The whimpering sound she makes is beautiful and he endeavours to hear it again.

"Spock," Nyota says, her voice soft, raspy, and weak. How can he stay standing when she says his name in that manner?

He presses his mouth to hers and breathes her in, as deeply as possible even as his hands trail lower down her sides, fingers grazing over the skin where her waist concaves inward then flares back out at her hips. Were he to go just a little bit farther down and around, he'd feel the curve of her backside.

He moves his hand in that direction, grazing his palm over the soft, round flesh, running a finger down the crease of her ass, then going forward. He can feel the slickness of her, even in the water.

She moans and rubs herself against his fingers, suddenly taken by lust.

One of her hands is entwined in his hair and the other works its way downward from his waist. She slips her hand into his boxers, pulls them down far enough that his  _lok_  springs out, now bare and pressed against Nyota's soft belly.

She wraps her fist around the length, pulls.

"Nyota," he says, and grabs her hand. If she strokes him, he will lose himself quickly.

As he grabs her hand and their fingers interweave, he makes stronger telepathic contact. Underneath her desire and longing, there is intense, debilitating fear, crippling anxiety, so heavy that it stills her in place and she has forgotten how to pull away, to move.

He pulls his lips from hers and—difficultly—convinces himself to remove his fingers from between her legs, despite the heat radiating therefrom, inviting him to touch. She feels unfathomably good, slick with want.

"What is it?" she asks, pecking her lips against his chin, neck.

Would it be so wrong to have her here? Now? She clearly wants him.

She hoists herself up onto him, wrapping her legs around his waist. His  _lok_  brushes against her  _keshtan-ur_ , and it takes a considerable amount of strength not to push into her. He would make sure it was pleasurable for her, make her come and tremble and clutch him.

"Nyota. No," he says, untangling himself from her.

Immediately, she pulls away, but he grabs hold of her hand, sending her just a fraction of his thoughts about her through the touch.

"Please. I do not wish you to leave," he says, not used to voicing such feelings.

"Then why did you stop? Did I say the wrong thing? Do the wrong thing?" she asks. Their fingers are laced together. He can feel every flicker of emotion that passes the labyrinth of her mind.

"There is nothing you could do or say that would be wrong," he says.

"Then what?"

"I would not have you before you are ready."

"I  _am_  ready."

He kisses her forehead. "You are not, and that is acceptable."

"No it's not. I'm frigid," she says, clearly quoting something that has been said to her.

"You are…far from frigid," he says, his eyes. "Your temperature is adequate."

She is warm, so warm. Full of heat. "He kisses her again, harder than before, slipping his tongue between her lips. Her knees buckle in the water and he steadies her with his arm, retreating just centimetres so his lips brush against her cheek as he speaks.

"Do not doubt how much I desire thee," he says.

She rubs her cheeks against his hand, and he feels her affection, her admiration, her love. "I can feel you," she says, her eyes flicking downward to his erection, which is pressed against her soft thigh.

"Does it disturb you? My want for you?" he asks. If she finds his attentions unwelcome, he will cease touching her in this way and make attempts to get over his affection for her. And if it is not possible to get over them, which he suspects is the case, he will not burden her with them.

"I want you, too. So, so much," she says. "I don't know what's wrong with me. It just gets all mixed up in my head, any time someone touches me."

He presses a kiss to her ear, brushes strands of wavy hair off her face. "There is nothing wrong with you, Nyota. You will have me when you are ready to have me."

"What if I'm never ready? That's the part I'm afraid of," she says.

"If you are never ready, then you are never ready. It does not change my feelings toward you. Should you…should you wish to be with me, then we will be together, and if our only expressions of physical intimacy is the touch of our hands and the occasional pressing of lips together, I will be satisfied."

#

Back on Terra, they take to touching fingers.

The tips of hers are calloused, as are his—Spock's the result of playing his lyre, hers the result of soldering, welding, lathing. She prefers to build her own comm boards and consoles so that they will conform to her personal specifications. She is a blacksmith and metallurgist, and often, he wonders where it is she picked up these skills. Not Starfleet.

Then their explorations move beyond finger touches and lip kisses. She allows him to feel her body and to slide his hands beneath her clothes, run them over her perfect skin.

Touch becomes easier for her, and though Spock meant what he said, that he would be satisfied with whatever limits Nyota placed on him, he is pleased for the opportunity to bring her pleasure in this way. It is months into her third year at the Academy, November, before they place their hands on each other's genitalia.

With time, the fear beneath her desire diminishes to nothing. She trusts him and feels safe with him, and the past manages to stay out of her mind when they touch most nights. He knows that it is still a weight on her shoulder that she will carry always, but he is relieved that at least in this small way she has gotten rid of some of her burden.

They are bad at the limits they set themselves. They make a rule to never touch each other on campus, but he has fingered her in his office before, has sucked her bare nipples whilst he was supposed to be grading papers.

It is near Christmas when they first share complete intercourse.

Spock remains in his office late into the night. The Automated Cleaning Units have already come and gone. Lights in the wash rooms, corridors, and lobby have already faded to zero.

Spock has finished grading assessments but there is some other work he would like to complete in his office: debug the auxiliary software for the Kobayashi Maru, read over Captain Pike's crew recommendations, complete final edits on the paper he plans to submit to the Astronomy and Astrophysics Review regarding some of his recent findings (Nyota suggested ways for him to clarify his language in certain areas, and he agrees with her advice).

Now that finals are complete and students have largely abandoned campus for their two-week winter leave, he has time and opportunity to complete his personal work in relative peace.

Of course, it is just as he is having that thought that the chime on the outside of his door rings.

"State your business," says Spock, eyes never leaving the screen of his PADD. Data from the remote sensors in his lab is syncing to the device.

"It's me," Spock hears.

Spock tells the Computer to disengage the lock. "Nyota," he says.

He stands up as she enters. "Are you well?" he asks, going toward her.

She lingers for a moment in the door frame before entering and the letting the door shut behind her.

"Nyota?" Spock asks again.

"I'm all right, Spock," she says. She stands approximately 2.8 metres away from him but he can smell her scent in full. Hair product. Salt.

"Your shuttle to Nairobi left nine hours ago," he says.

"I wasn't on it," she says. "I needed to talk to you."

Her hair is messy. Wind-blown. Weighted down in places by sweat.

"I am quite reachable by comm or video," says Spock. "It was not necessary for you to delay your trip." He takes a moment to examine her more fully.

Her physical condition appears adequate. No visible injuries. Spock's heart rate settles by seven beats per minute. She is unharmed.

"Did you get my edits?" she asks. Despite her flushed cheeks and dishevelled hair, she does not appear flustered. She is all business. Professional. Poised.

"I received them, yes," says Spock. "Did you wish to discuss your suggestions for my journal submission in person? Is that why you did not return to your family for the winter leave?" he asks.

She pouts and gives him a look. She is wearing her uniform, as is the expectation of all students on campus, regardless of their leave-status.

"You know that's not why I'm here," she says.

Yes. He knows.

"Perhaps you should take a seat then and tell me the actual reason for your presence here?" says Spock.

She nods, but instead of taking a seat in his chair or in one of the chairs provided for guests to his office, she walks to his desk and hoists herself on top it. Her dark red skirt, which usually falls at mid-thigh, rises.

Nyota is wearing her black tights. They are thick, opaque. He can see nothing of the brown skin that he knows lies beneath.

"Chair," she says, and points to his spot. He obeys the command, takes a seat across from her in his chair.

"I can't go back there right now," she says. "To Nairobi."

"Do you not wish to see your mother?" says Spock.

One of her legs is crossed over the other. He can see the bony knob of her right knee, stretching the fabric of her hosiery so he gets the faintest impression of what the skin looks like beneath.

"I do, but I can't risk…I don't know. It's unfair that I feel safe in my own homeland but I do. I want to stay with you, Spock. Will you let me do that? Just over the break. If not, it's okay. I have enough money to rent a little place for a couple of weeks, but I have been thinking…it might be okay? If I were to stay with you? If you were all right with it, of course. I know that just like me you value your privacy."

She slides off the desk and gets onto his lap on the desk chair, her knees straddling his thighs. She kisses the top of his head. "Well?" she asks. "What do you think?"

As if he could ever be expected to make a well-thought out decision with her proximity so immediately close.

His voice comes sounding not at all like it should. Croaky, low, unsteady. "I am amenable," he says.

"Do you want me to stay with you?" she asks, reaching out to grab his fingers so she can know whether he speaks the truth to her.

"Yes," says Spock. These simple yes or no questions he can handle when she is on top of him in the way.

"Does it distract you when I sit like this?"

"Yes," he answers.

"So do you want me to get off of you?" she asks.

"No."

She kisses him again on the forehead.

Spock moves his hands to the small of her waist to steady her. "You are here," says Spock, head nestled into the crook of her neck.

"Yes," she says, kisses him on the temple. "I'm here."

The touch of her lips is so, so soft but still the kiss sparks like shorted copper wire against his skin.

They lean their foreheads together and touch the tips of their noses.

Spock scents her. Rubs his into her cheek and neck, back and forth. He wishes to lick and bite her over and over but knows it is uncouth. He's an animal and he wishes he was not.

He allows himself a teasing dart of the tongue against her chin—just to get a taste—but once her skin is inside his mouth he cannot resist dragging his tongue along her jawbone and grazing the cuff of her ear with his teeth.

Nyota's breaths become shallow as he laps at her skin. She moans and it incites him. His teeth close and pull on her jaw. Harder than he intended to, he knows, because she gasps.

"Apologies," he says, voice breathy and shaky.

"Again," says Nyota.

"Apologies."

"No, no," Nyota says. "Teeth again. Please. Please. Please. Please," she says.

"You would not want me to lose myself with you," says Spock, lips brushing her skin intentionally. He sucks skin on her neck hard until he leaves a dark purple mark. He wants to taste her mouth. Lay his teeth in her skin. "Does it please you to reveal how weak my control is? Do you like knowing I have no dignity when it comes to you?"

Her lips find his, open and soft. He slides his tongue between them.

Nyota starts to grind herself against him, her skirt scooching up over her bottom, the in-betweens of her legs making contact with the growing bulge in his trousers.

The pressure is excruciatingly inadequate, reaching through boxers, trousers, her thick, opaque hosiery, then briefs.

Nyota attempts to sink down further onto him, pressing herself into his groin and rubbing herself. She whimpers.

He palms her right buttocks, squeezes. Soft and round and perfect. Reaches around to grab the other. Moves her up and down so her clothed-crotch slides up and down over his erection.

Nyota's breaths turn to gasps as they dry-fuck, her body rocking into his unbidden.

He rips her stockings from behind, tearing a line in the fabric from the bottom curve of her buttocks to her cunt.

The scent of her makes him groan. He can't help but inhale hungrily, He tears her tights more, and then her knickers, so she is exposed. As Spock slides two fingers down the crease of her ass, working toward her vagina, they become slick with her arousal. He wants to slide them into her and stroke inside her til she comes, dripping. Wants Nyota to lick her own moisture from his index and pointer, felate his fingers, her lips and tongue and teeth working them.

"Will you ride my fingers, Nyota?" he whispers into her ear, sliding them into her, weaving his hand under the torn hosiery. He derives much pleasure from the clench of her muscles over his sensitive fingers.

Nyota begins to lift her hips up and down over his two fingers.

She is shy in her desire and moves slowly, cautiously.

So Spock reaches out a thumb to tease her clit, sliding it around in circles for three seconds before pulling away, enough to make her whimper in want. "Spock," she says. "Please, Spock. Want you," she says.

"You have me. Take what you wish," he says, stroking inside of her with his fingers, pressing against that tender spot that makes her seize up.

She begins to move herself up and down on his fingers more forcefully. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," she says. Faster now. He can feel the mounting tension inside her, the need for friction and pressure and more.

Spock knows he will come from the feel of her hot cunt slick on his fingers.

With his free hand, he reaches down and unbuttons his trousers, unzips, lets his cock slide out of his briefs.

He strokes it with his right hand as he continues to pump his left inside of Nyota. "You like the feel of me inside of you, Nyota?" he asks as she squeezes her fingers into his neck hard, marking him, her cunt rocking senselessly onto his fingers.

She is painfully tight. Two fingers is a difficult fit. They fill and stretch and open her.

The desk chair is no longer suited to Spock's desires. He picks Nyota up and sets her on the desk, lays her onto her back as he continues to stand. Her legs are lifted up and bent at the knee, spread wide, revealing her perfect cunt.

"Spread yourself," he says.

Her fingers slide downward. She opens herself up for him so he can in perfect detail the dark brown of her labia and the pink of her cunt.

"Show me how much you hunger for me."

She put two fingers between her legs and begins to fuck herself with them.

He jacks himself off as he watches her.

"Grab your ankles," he says, brushing his finger against her thigh, letting her know that even though he's phrased it as a command, she is under no obligation to obey, and his chief concern is always her pleasure.

She wraps a palm around each ankle, holding them up, still bent at the knee.

He is quite certain that his superiors never imagined he'd used his desk in quite this fashion.

"Do you like putting yourself on display for me?"

She opens herself up wider for him.

"Can I touch myself?" she asks.

"No."

He drags a finger down her thigh and the bottom of her ass, exposed in this position. Then he runs it between her legs, til it's wet.

"I have often wondered if there is part of you that has intentionally paraded yourself for me to lure my affections. There are uniforms with trousers or with skirts that reach the knee," he says. "I recognise that your choice to wear the uniform that reveals your body to perfection is not necessarily meant to provoke me; yet when I see how much pleasure you are in right now, how excited you become showing off your near-naked body and your wet pussy so shamelessly, I wonder if perhaps I am wrong."

She blinks slowly, lids heavy. "How long have you wanted to fuck me?"

Since Ethiopia.

Since she'd humiliated him in front of a crowd of his academic peers.

How he'd wanted to take her against the wall in front of them all and make her beg for it so she would know and they would know he was worthy of her.

"Since I met you," he says. "I'm going to drink from you now, Nyota."

He buries his face between her thighs, conveniently open for him.

Tongue in her cunt and nose on her clit. For a moment he forgets her pleasure and thinks only of his hunger for her taste, eating her greedily as she bucks. He runs his tongue over her clit, down all the way to her perineum, then back up.

He loves it when her hips jerk up into him. Wants more. "Harder, Nyota," he says, reaching under her to grab her ass and press her cunt to his mouth.

Spock drops to his knees, pulls her by the ankles so her ass is right on the edge of the desk so he can reach her easily with his tongue.

Her hips move up and down into his face hard.

Her hands tangle in his hair, pulling, pressing him in between her legs, using Spock's tongue and mouth like her private toy.

Later, when they mate for the first time, and he can feel the burn of his penis stretching her vagina through the touch of fingers, he wonders how he held out this long. There is no more pleasurable sound in this quadrant of the galaxy than his cock sliding in and out of her, her breathy moans a lovely counterpointe.

It is that memory of their first coupling that Spock still considers years and years and years later some nights, when Nyota is stationed for a week or two away and he must take himself in hand. When he is alone, he chooses to remember that moment because it was then, when they first joined physically, that he knew their minds should be one, as well.

#

Night comes and with it, icy winds from the Northeast.

Spock awakes mad and hot from dreams of the past and he knows not where his day went.

Was it 11.2 hours ago that Nyota packed a bag, gathered up the girls, and departed? Or 10.2 hours ago? He has blacked out and lost time.

He sees the porch table in pieces in the yard. Logically, he knows that he is responsible, yet he cannot recall at all when he—

No. He remembers. He'd picked the table up and thrown it to the ground, no longer able to stand the memories the piece of furniture provoked: images of his Nyota prone on its top, her ass up for him. He'd instructed her to widen her knees, and she'd complied, revealing slick arousal in the place where he would enter her over and over and over.

Nyota is gone. He calls out to her in his mind, but he has pushed her so far away that she is not close enough to hear his yearnings.

Spock's heart thumps in his side hard and painful. His ribs feel bruised but he knows not why.

#

5003\. 5009. 5011. 5021. 5023. 5039. 5051. 5059.

A litany of prime numbers.

5077\. 5081. Nyota. Nyota. Nyota. 5087. 5099. 5101. 5103—

No. 5103 divided by three is 1701 and is therefore not a prime number. Toddler's arithmetic and yet Spock has botched the simple calculation.

For the fifth time since starting this meditation technique tonight, he must start over.

1\. 3. 5. 7. 11. 13. 17. 19. 23. 29. 31.

It is highly probable that Nyota is in Maresh's arms at this very moment.

34\. 37. 41. 43.

Is she calling out his name? Is his tongue pressed inside of her? Is she squeezing her breasts, small and round, as Maresh looks on lustfully?

47\. 53. 59. 61.

Spock relocates outside so the cold wind might cool his burning body.

He rubs his face against Nyota's 't-shirts,' 'leggings,' and, 'hoodies' as he treads a course from one end of the laundry line to the other, marking his scent onto the fabric, his eyes never far from the horizon line.

A bird watches him from its perch on a boulder 11.2 metres away. It must smell the droplets of green blood that flow from Spock's feet where thorns press in. Spock should go inside and treat the tiny puncture wounds, but the abrasions prove a welcome distraction from more pressing grievances, namely, the pulsating heat in his chest, stomach, and groin. He has not experienced the sensation before but he likens it to a second-degree burn: a hot brand being held against his insides for ten seconds at a time, over and over.

A small, bipedal mammal with red fur darts across his sightline, headed toward the bird keeping tabs on Spock. The  _kushel_  flies away before the mammalian predator can pounce.

Spock turns his ear eastward when he hears the soft murmur of a flitter-engine. He jogs to the front gate. The transport is government-issued, black, flat, narrow, made for a single person.

The flitter comes to a stop, hovers in the air three seconds before it floats down to the ground. The driver side door slides open and Varum steps out, dressed in a long, cotton black tunic with brass buttons, a high-necked collar. His guard outfit. Official business, then.

"Na'shaya, Osu, Spock," says Varum. His stride is long as he moves toward the gate.

"Na'shaya," Spock returns. It is unlike Varum to stall with unnecessary greetings. "You bear news?" he asks. It takes all of his strength to keep his voice steady and calm.

"Ha. Of your adun'a and kofu-lar. They are safe, in good health, and your daughters currently reside at the Central Estate."

Spock blinks his eyes twice as he considers the information. Nyota had gone to T'Pau then. Why? To request  _p'pi'lay_?

"A comm message would have sufficed," says Spock, the harsh consonants of his Vulkhansu sharper now because he's intoning them lazily like a child. "You said my daughters currently reside at the Central Estate but said nothing of my wife. Is she not there?"

"That is the matter I wished to discuss with you in person. Osu, are you well? You tremble as if chilled. Shall I call a healer to the house?"

Spock stills himself immediately, inhales then exhales. "I am adequate. Simply exhausted."

Varum hesitates, the smallest scrunch of his brow apparent before it smoothens out. "Of course, Osu."

"Varum, does Honoured Matriarch T'Pau know that you are here?" Spock asks. He makes an effort to remove all intonation from his speech, and though it requires more focus than it usually would to complete the task, he finds the result acceptable. Vulkhansu, especially the Golic tongue in which they now speak, has a tendency to sound like 'baby-talk' when overly intoned.

When Varum does not answer the question immediately, Spock asks him again. "Does Honoured Matriarch T'Pau know that you are here?"

"There is little T'Pau does not know," says Varum, gaze averted a millimetre left.

"You avoid answering the question."

"She does not know," Varum says.

"Then it would behove you to leave."

"Honoured T'Pau allows me a certain level of freedom to accomplish tasks she may not wish to deal with directly given her other responsibilities to the Clan."

"And what task is it with which you wish to deal?"

"Lady Nyota. May we step inside? I do not wish to be overheard."

With a nod, Spock begins the walk toward the house. They both move silently.

It occurs to Spock that he wears no shirt, no socks, is unshaven, fringe untrimmed. "I regret my current appearance. I did not expect a caller."

"It is of no concern," says Varum.

"Tell me more of my family," Spock says.

"Osu Sarek has returned, and right now he cares for your daughters." Varum pauses for several seconds, seeming to consider his words very carefully. He stops, turns to Spock. "Lady Nyota…" says Varum. He stutters slightly over her name, then restarts. "Lady Nyota was at the Central Estate but just recently left. I did, however, speak with her before her departure, and she gave me word of where she was going."

"And where is that?" asks Spock.

"We will speak more once inside," says Varum.

The inside of the house is not clean. A blanket strewn on the sofa. A half-finished water bottle sits on the counter. Nyota's dirty running clothes in a pile in the corridor.

"Are you familiar with the V'Tosh called Maresh? He who is your  _aduna's_  direct supervisor?"

Has T'Pau already agreed to bond him and Nyota?

"I am familiar," says Spock.

"You must understand that Lady Nyota revealed these things to me in assumed confidence," Varum says.

"Say what you wish to say."

"Maresh has behaved in an untoward fashion toward Lady Nyota, and I do not believe her work situation is conducive to emotional or physical safety. Lady Nyota expressed what I believed to be feelings associated with someone responding to a particular sort of harassment. When she revealed some of his actions to me—and I do not believe she told me everything, so there is perhaps more—I knew immediately that he requires removal from his position. He is not honourable, Osu Spock."

Spock turns toward the open screen door. It wavers slightly as a breeze passes.

"I know that it is our people's way to deal with these matters with a certain…decisiveness, but I assure you, once Nyota has finished her business I will inform Honoured T'Pau and we will resolve this matter through the proper channels, swiftly, and if we are fortuitous, with Maresh's exile," says Varum.

"You tell me this  _aushfa_  has violated my wife and expect me to leave him breathing?" asks Spock. His nostrils flare with each breath of air he exhales. "What business is Nyota finishing?" says Spock.

Varum hesitates for an unnaturally long time.

"Tell me. You said that after Nyota finished her business, you would inform T'Pau. To what business do you refer?"

"Osu, are you sure you are well? Please, let me call a healer."

"Where is my wife?" Spock asks. "You said that she told you where she went before she left the Central Estate."

"Perhaps it is best we—"

"Are you attempting to conceal her from me so that you might keep her for yourself?" he says, stepping up to Varum. He will snap this man's neck if he dare hide Nyota from him.

"No, Osu Spock, of course not. This-one understands Lady Nyota is yours."

"Yes, mine."

Varum nods, taking a slight step back. "You are feverish, Osu. I will call a healer then retrieve your  _aduna_ myself and bring her to you."

"You will not touch her," says Spock, and he rushes Varum and forces him against the wall, his forearm pressed into the servant's windpipe.

"Osu, this-one understands Lady Nyota belongs to thee," Varum gasps.

"Then tell me where she is."

"I—please, first, let me go."

Spock loosens his hold but keeps Varum pinned to the wall.

"She has gone to her workplace to confront Maresh," says Varum. "Please, Osu, stay here. I know that you require your  _aduna_ and I will bring her to thee, but you must not leave the house in your condition."

Spock lets Varum off the wall but he has no plans to heed his words.

He hears the servant making a call.

"Yes, I require immediate transfer to the Honoured Mother," Spock hears Varum say.

Spock heads out the front door and runs toward the gate to Varum's flitter, busts inside.

He sets the autopilot to her workplace and then goes, knowing that Varum will be picked up soon and not far behind him.

He will kill the man who dared harm his wife in such a way.

When he arrives, Spock is able to hack the security check easily, considering it was he who designed it. He runs through the corridors, honing in on the bond to his wife so he can find her in the maze-like structure.

 _Spock,_ he hears her say through their link, a thread of shock in her voice.

 _I come to thee,_ he says and continues to run.

He rips the door off its hinges when he comes to the room where his wife and Maresh are located.

Maresh standing across from Nyota, hands clasped neatly in front of himself, though a subtle twitch of the lips breaks through his apparently calm exterior as Spock approaches him.

"Nyota, you will wait for me in the corridor. Go," he says.

"Spock," she says, and then says the next part silently through their bond,  _do your burn?_

_Yes, I burn for thee._

She nods her head, makes a call through a comm device as Spock sizes up Maresh.

Maresh appears cocky, a slight smirk present on his face.

He's got an inch or two on Spock height-wise. He's dressed handsomely in robes. His skin is olive and tanned a beautiful gold. "Does it disturb thee that nyota wishes to spend the evening here with me, working?" asks Maresh.

"You will not say her name again," says Spock.

"It is not unusual for us to work closely together in this capacity. Worry not. I take care of her needs, and it is my job as her superior to insure her satisfaction."

Spock takes a step forward and lifts Maresh up by his neck against the wall with a single hand, choking the life out of him, Maresh six inches off the ground. "You dare taunt me?" he asks. Through his fingertips, Spock can feel the life leave from Maresh.

Spock sees through the corner of his eyes that T'Pau has arrived via emergency transport-beam. "Spokh!" she calls.

"You will not disturb this-one now," says Spock. "This-one will kill he who would defile his mate."

"Spokh! Enough!" T'Pau calls again.

Spock lets Maresh drop to the floor, gasping and panting and spitting and coughing. Spock kicks Maresh hard in the face, satisfied by the sound of cracking jaw and the feel of a tooth loosening. He does it again.

Then Nyota calls him, her voice a sweet balm and he forgets about Maresh and goes to her, presses his nose into her neck then licks her from the collarbone up to her ear, his body pressed into her. Finally, finally, he is touching her. Finally, finally, he is reunited with his wife.


	12. Amok

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for extremely explicit sex.

Spock's mind prickles like a freshly-formed blister.

The sensation curdles Nyota's skin. When she looks down upon her wrist, she's surprised to see that the epidermis has not crackled and folded in on itself from Spock's heat.

Maresh groans on the floor, green blood smeared on his lip and chin. There is a dark olive ring around his neck where Spock held his throat.

T'Pau calls orders to Varum and S'Harien. She asks for a female healer, a tranquiliser, and three other items Nyota doesn't catch because Spock is brushing his lips against her skin, sniffing her, rubbing his cheek against hers to impart his scent. "This-one needs you now and this-one will have you now, if you are willing," he says. Spock pulls Nyota's uniform collar to the side and bites the exposed skin gently, unsnaps all the buttons of her shirt and slides his hand against the top of her bare stomach, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast.

After months of forced celibacy Nyota had not been sure she had the desire to be touched in this way anymore, had convinced herself that—well, if he didn't want her, she didn't want him either. But she is mad with it, almost as mad as him, engrossed in his kisses and the sensation of his skin against hers.

"Stop, baby, you have to stop," says Nyota. She places her palms on his cheeks. "Focus, Spock. We need to go. We can't do this here, okay?"

He nuzzles his face into her warm hands, trying to press his mind closer to hers. "You do not want this-one?" he asks. "Has this-one driven you away? Has this-one hurt you irrevocably?" He is panting and the burning inside of him crescendos until Nyota can feel it peeling her own insides.

"Baby, baby, it's okay," she says, touching her fingertips to his face to calm him. He runs his hand down her side, grabs her hip, rests his forehead against hers.

"Will you let this-one taste you, at least?" he asks, and drops to his knees. He nuzzles his face into her crotch after lifting her skirt like there aren't people watching. Varum and S'harien and, fuck, Head Mother of the whole goddamn clan T'Pau.

"You are wet and yet you deny this-one?" he asks.

"I'm not denying you," says Nyota. She doesn't think she is. She's not sure if she's saying yes either. Months of the cold shoulder and now what is she supposed to do? Brush it away? Say it's in the past and pretend it never happened? She craves her husband as much as he seems to crave her, but she doesn't believe in simple answers. It cannot be as easy as a kiss and a hard fuck, then suddenly the pain of extended silences melts away.

"This-one will die if he does not have thee soon," he says.

She knows he speaks truth.

Nyota attempts calming him but he seems barely to hear her, his face nuzzled into the crotch of her tights, his teeth tearing at the hosiery.

So Varum comes up from behind and sticks a hypo into Spock's neck.

He cries out and looks so betrayed before he falls to his side, Varum catching him and helping him down.

Nyota holds Spock on the floor, brushing hair off his face and kissing his feverishly hot forehead.

"Granddaughter-by-Marriage, we have little time," says T'Pau. "You are aware of what is occurring?"

Aware is much too generous a word. "This is Spock's—"

"We do not speak of it," says T'Pau.

Nyota stands hesitantly, ready to accept whatever directives T'Pau gives but reluctant to leave Spock's side. This is the most she's touched him and the most he's touched her in half a year and she's loathe to separate herself from him again.

"I have arranged an escort for you," T'Pau says. "She will take you to the unpopulated areas of our family's grounds where a room will be prepared for you. Go and go quickly. Varum and S'harien will bring your husband safely to you."

Nyota is thankful to have a set of instructions, as she'd otherwise have no idea what to do for herself, for her husband.

After a kiss to Spock's cheek warm, she leaves.

The woman escorting Nyota is a young healer named T'Yen. She sits silently next to Nyota in the back of the flitter, hands in her lap. She has dark skin and even darker eyes. Nyota cannot see her hair for the cloth wrapped around it. Dark blue with gold trim. Aside from a brief introduction, she has been silent for the course of their meeting.

"T'Yen?" asks Nyota.

"Correct. Your pronunciation is laudable."

"I meant—may I speak freely with you?" Nyota asks.

"Clarify 'freely,'" says T'Yen.

"Is it alright if we talk about the Time?"

"That is the purpose for my presence," says T'Yen. "What do you wish to know?"

Nyota releases a heavy breath. "Everything. My husband spoke of it before our bond, but only vaguely. An oestrous cycle? I thought it usually hit Vulcans in their fifties or sixties?"

"Indeed, it is similar to the Terran phenomena among certain female mammals of going into heat," T'Yen says. "The mean age of first onset is 56, but V'tosh experience pon farr as early as nineteen in some cases, though this is extremely rare. Discord and emotional strain may cause an early pon farr. For example, after Va'Pak, many described having their Time off of their seven year cycle, and many young people experienced it unexpectedly early."

Nyota takes in the information, synthesising it with what she knows from her husband and other reading materials.

"How long does it last? My husband has been…not quite himself for some time. Meditating in almost all of his free time as if emotionally disturbed. Does that have anything to do with his Time? Coincidence?"

"Possibly. I lack the body of knowledge necessary to determine conclusively. Speed and degree of onset vary significantly from person to person. Some experience being in an excited state only moments before they are deep into plak tow, and others say they have felt compromised emotions for up to a year before, growing in intensity as the Time approaches. Stress can upset the natural rhythms and extend or shorten cycles," says T'Yen.

It's a long shot, maybe, but Nyota feels like she can finally begin putting the pieces of the last several months together. Compromised emotions, added stressors. It makes sense.

"I'm scared," says Nyota.

T'Yen tilts her head questioningly as she considers Nyota's comment. "You must process your fear, explore its origins, reaffirm your logic as a function of managing your emotions, then let go of the fear so you may be at peace."

Great. Thanks.

"I would also have you know that many humans have experienced the Time with their Vulcan mate without ill effect," she says. "Does that reassure you?"

Nyota half nods yes and half shakes her head no. "Will everything we need be there?" she asks, referring to the network of caves to which they are headed.

"Typically, one would pack an overnight bag with fresh clothes, personal items, and toiletries, as the rooms contain only basic amenities. Furniture, fresh linens, a tub. As I said, onset of the Time varies widely and so it benefits one to always be prepared."

Nyota keeps her hands clasped tightly together near her abdomen.

"Servants are preparing the room now, however, with appropriate accommodations," T'Yen continues, "since Osu Spock's Time has come unexpectedly early in his lifespan. You will be able to order food, but there is a basic kitchen stocked with rice and other non-perishable goods should you prefer not to have contact with the outside world. For safety reasons, all personnel in the caves are automated ."

Nyota sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, worrying it with her teeth.

"Will he be violent?"

"Not toward you."

"Will he—will he hurt me?"

"No."

"How can you know that?"

"Because I have experience working as a guide for couples in this capacity. Many Vulcans fear that they will harm their mates but these feelings, like many feelings, are illogical and not supported by empirical evidence. It is likely your mate will be aggressive and forceful in his devotions, crude in his speech, and demanding when it comes to his pleasure and yours, but he will not hurt you; and should something become too much, he will remain cognizant enough to respect your wishes."

It's the most anyone's said about the Time in Nyota's seven years living on New Vulcan.

"I can feel him. God, it's hot. He's growing impatient," she says, as she feels the burn of his body through their link.

"We are three minutes and eleven seconds away from our destination. It is customary for you to arrive first. He will find you by following your scent."

"How long does that usually take?" Nyota asks.

"The caves expand kilometres in depth and length. Sometimes fifteen minutes. Sometimes an hour. I have insufficient data to supply you a definite answer."

Spock is crying out for her through the bond.

"When he is tracking you, you must speak to him through the bond in order to calm him so he does not slip deeper into the madness. The reassurance of your mind will be his only balm during this time."

"Any other last minute tips?" Nyota asks as she feels the flitter descend.

"Though he has lost his logic, he has not lost who he is. Know your boundaries so that he can know them, and therefore respect them."

The flitter juts forward when it hits the ground, and Nyota's stomach turns. She slides out of the vehicle, follows T'Yen forward. Desert surrounds them for miles.

T'Yen shines a flashlight when they enter the caves, which are clean and free of any apparent life forms. The walls of rock have been smoothed. The ground is even and paved. There is the distant sound of water deep underground, but Nyota cannot see it.

As they step farther into the tunnels, dim lights flash on automatically.

"Do not be alarmed by the rustic nature of the locale. You are safe and easily reached should harm befall either of you."

Nyota nods, though she hadn't been disturbed by itin the first place.

"Here we are," says T'Yen and shows Nyota into a small room. There is a large bed made up with sheets and blankets, a table, and a kitchenette with counters and a cooling-unit. "Through there is a bathroom," says T'Yen.

It's large. There's a big tub, a sink, and a stack of towels on a counter. "There's running water here?"

"Yes."

T'Yen shows her back into the main room. "Should you wish to use them on your mate to assuage your fears, there are restraints and other tools in that compartment," she says, pointing to a large, wooden chest.

"Restraints?"

"Shackles, handcuffs, rope."

Deep breath, Nyota.

"He's nearby," she says and squeezes her legs together.

"Then I will depart. The servants placed items of your clothes in the dressers. I will see you in 24-48 hours."

T'Yen slips quietly through the door and is gone.

Anxious to get out of her uniform, Nyota changes into a large t-shirt that goes down to her knees. It's one she'd appropriated from Spock a long time ago. Not particularly enticing, but it will do.

Ashal-veh? she hears in her mind. His voice is cracked and low. Why do you hide from me?

She curls onto the bed and closes her eyes. I am here. Does the odour of my desire not guide you? Shall I pleasure myself whilst I await thee so my scent becomes strong again?"

She hears only a pained growl.

Nyota smiles at her own boldness. She isn't sure if that is what T'Yen had in mind when she said speak to him through the bond—this might make him more mad—but she knows not what else to say. She can't help it. The burning inside him is contagious and she feels it spreading through her. He'd touched her like he loved her again back at her work headquarters and she wants him to touch her like that again.

Do you want me to touch myself? she asks Spock.

Yes.

She squeezes her legs together until she feels a lovely pang of sensation. It's been building since this morning, when she'd woken up to Spock's erection pushing into her ass and had gotten an impression of his dreamscape. That, and the last several months, too.

Are you doing it, Nyota? Are you touching yourself?

She squeezes her legs together again in pulsing rhythm. Yes, beloved. Can thee not smell how wet this-one is?

Dip your finger into your keshtan-ur and then into your mouth so that I might taste you through the bond, he says. His tone leaves no doubt that he expects her to comply.

She rolls onto her back, opens her legs, bends them at the knees. She slides the first two fingers of her right hand into herself, then flicks her tongue against them once she removes them.

More, Nyota. Finger yourself until you are dripping and let me taste you again.

She does so, sending him images of how she plays with herself through their mind-touch.

So wet, Spock, my thighs are sticky.

He is getting closer to her.

She starts to rub her clitoris with the hem of the t-shirt's she's wearing, getting it all wet with her arousal.

Spock, please find me, I need you so much.

You are rubbing yourself with the hem of my old shirt, he says.

Yes, and I'm getting so, so close.

You may not come yet, Nyota.

But she has to. She hasn't done this—touched herself—in ages. It's barely been three minutes and she feels the familiar tingling of nerves in her clit, clustered and ready to erupt.

She needs more, to be filled.

Nyota hops off the bed and jogs to the wooden chest T'Yen had showed her earlier. She opens it, struggling slightly with the unexpectedly heavy weight.

There are shelves and compartments in the chest, and yes, on one of them, just what she needs.

What are you doing, Nyota?

Forgive me, baby.

You will wait for me.

The toy is in her palm, thick, just like she likes it, though it is nothing compared to Spock's girth.

She can't wait. She goes to the bed, lifts up her legs off the bed, pulling her knees back toward her chest, then slides the toy inside herself. It's been so long and she's sore despite how wet she is. She shoves it in hard over and over.

Bad girl, Nyota, says Spock. Your husband is so near to you that he is getting drunk off your scent, and still you cannot wait?

She fucks herself with the toy, imagining its Spock.

So greedy for cock that you cannot wait half a minute.

Nyota rocks her hips into it, mindless.

Are you not ashamed to fuck that thing when your needy husband has been yearning you?

Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, she says as she slams it into herself roughly

Then he is in the room. Nyota doesn't even bother looking up. She knows it's him when she feels the rush of his heat. He removes her hand from the toy, replaces it with his own, and begins to fuck her hard with the dildo, in and out of her tight pussy.

"Tell me what you fantasised about," he says, "and I will not punish you as harshly as I originally intended."

He thrusts the toy deep and fast, his pace merciless as she continues to rub her clit through the fabric of her t-shirt. "Feels so good," she says.

He thrusts the dildo into her harder. "I said tell me what you fantasised about."

"About you punishing me," she says, squeezing her eyes shut as shameful warmth floods her cheeks.

"I know," says Spock, and Nyota doesn't doubt his words. Their minds hover together so closely right now that he can read every unfiltered thought. "You like to be punished, to be reminded of your place."

He withdraws the toy slowly, reinserts it slowly. Pulls it out again. Waits. Puts it in slowly. "Spock, please, Spock," she begs, jutting her hips up to meet the toy as he fucks her agonisingly slow with it.

"How did you fantasise I would punish you?" he asks.

"You know how."

"Do not talk back to me, Nyota. I wish you to speak what you fantasised aloud. Do so now."

She rolls her head back and forth. She tilts her head down so she can see Spock's groin. There's a bulge in his trousers but he has not unzipped them yet, patient fucker.

"I wanted you to," she starts—and she's so close. She can come without the penetration, she just needs to rub her clit faster.

Spock picks up on the thought, grabs her hand and stills it. He takes her by the wrist then brings her fingers to her mouth, sucks them. He closes his eyes, presumably savouring the taste.

He repositions so he can lean over her, his hand still on the dildo, driving it into her so slow she thinks she might die from it. He lowers himself, drags his tongue along her neck and cheek, rubs his cheeks against her face to mark her with his scent. "Did you really expect me to let you come with anything inside you but my lok?" he asks, but keeps the toy buried inside her.

He kisses her, meets her tongue with his own. Nyota can feel him humping his erection into the side of her thigh as he kisses her.

"Tell me how you imagined me punishing you and I will let you come, ashal," he says, voice hoarse. His tongue is back in her mouth shortly, rubbing against hers. Fuck.

"I thought of you fucking me," she says.

"You lie."

Well it's only half a lie.

He removes the dildo from inside her then shoves it back in hard and she gasps at the feel of it. "It is only because I wish you to prepare yourself for the size of my cock that I allow you to keep this 'toy' inside of you. Now tell me the truth, Nyota."

"I thought of you fucking me there," she says, and forces her knees a little closer to her chest so her ass lifts up, and he can see what she's talking about. She closes her eyes, humiliated.

"Say it, Nyota. Where?"

"I thought of you punishing me by fucking me in my asshole," she says.

He groans, his cock still grinding against her thigh through his trousers.

Spock takes out the dildo for the last night and puts three fingers inside instead, curving them just so so he can touch her spot. Her walls tighten and convulse over his fingers and he is seconds away from his first climax—that is all it takes for him to feel satisfied, a few seconds of her cunt hot and wet and tight over the sensitive pads and tips of his fingers, and he is spurting seed inside of his trousers as she starts to come, too, her whole body spasming.

She can feel his mind, electric and stinging, can finally read his thoughts again after months of distance. It is violent, how good he feels to finally be connected with her in this way. The sensation starts in his groin but it blooms outward like a sun. Nyota can feel it in her own body, too. That kind of climax that reaches deep and fills you with prickly warmth.

"Stay, Nyota," Spock says, then slides off the bed. She finally rests her feet back on the bed, her head turned toward him as he moves to the open chest.

Her breathing unsteadies when she sees what he removes. Cuffs. Two long, black cloths.

Are you going to hurt me? Nyota asks, to afraid to speak the words out loud.

"That depends, Nyota; are you going to cease your defiant behaviour and be good?"

There is a bruise of longing between her legs when she hears those words. "What are you going to do to me?"

He ignores her, takes her wrists, and pulls each one back toward the bedpost. He cuffs them there above her head, one on either side, as she lies down. Next, he takes her right ankle, lifts it to her right wrist, and ties them together with the black cloth. He does the same with the left.

She's forced open wide for him, her wet pussy and ass on display.

Spock moves to the foot of the bed and begins to remove his shirt.

His body, as it always has been, is perfect. Perfectly sculptured shoulders and arms. Abdominal muscles that defy reason. He is narrow but defined, and the way his muscles seem to flex now, as he tries to contain himself, make her long to run hard hands over them. The dark hair on his chest has always been a weakness of hers. Something about how animal it looked.

Next, Spock undoes his belt buckle, though leaves the belt in the loops as he undoes the button and zipper.

Nyota makes a whimpering noise as the trousers fall to his knees then to his ankles. He does not take off his briefs. He stares at between her open legs intently as he takes out his cock from the slit in the fabric.

He's hard and pulsing, his lok a shade of deep green, filled with blood. The surface is shining and wet from come.

Spock begins to jack himself off as he watches Nyota tied up. His breaths are heavy. "You look so beautiful ready and wet and open for me like that," he says.

He gets on the bed and comes closer, still jerking himself as he runs his hand down her thigh and she shivers.

"Please," she says, voice trembling. Her bound legs shake. She wants to pull him close to her but she can't with the cuffs over her wrists.

"Please, what?" asks Spock. He's on his knees in front of her, his cock just over her centre.

Touch me. Fuck me. Lick me. Anything.

"Speak," he says.

Droplets of his pre-come fall onto her thighs.

"This-one requires your touch," she says.

She hasn't yet recovered from her first orgasm but all she can feel is a hot, painful hunger gnawing her from the inside.

"This-one knows you require his touch, but this-one is punishing you. Is that not what you wanted? Is that not why you disobeyed? So you could be punished?" asks Spock as he continues jerk himself off, the length of him an inch away from where she wants to be touched most.

"Please," she says and she tries to lift her hips up to make contact with his lok.

He kisses the side of her knee, his stubble scraping her skin. She shivers and jerks her hips up again. "Yes, yes, yes," she says.

Spock kisses a lazy trail of chaste kisses from Nyota's knee to thigh, dragging his teeth hard over the skin, biting lightly.

"I need to mark you, Nyota," he says, suddenly looking up at her.

"Yes, do it, please."

Licking a line from the top of her thigh to her buttocks to the crease of her ass, working his way back to the side of her thigh, he teases her.

His breath shudders as he tastes her skin, then he bites her, softly at first with his front teeth, then harder with his canines and molars, enough to bruise but not break skin.

Nyota cries out and bucks up. He bites her again, a few inches away from the first sight. He licks the skin where it's been wounded. She wants to pull away but she can't with the bindings holding her in place.

She wiggles her hips but she can't move. "Shhh, Nyota," he says, kissing her thigh.

"It hurts," says Nyota, referring to the longing she feels rather than the marks he's made in her skin.

"I know, ashal," he says. He gets close to the apex of her legs. He rubs his lips against the arousal gathered near her perineum. God, he makes her feel so dirty. "Be patient, be good, and I will forgive you for before and give you the touch you so desire."

"Don't you want this-one?" she asks

He makes a sound in the back of his throat like a growl.

"This-one is dripping wet for you and yet you do not take her," says Nyota.

"Nyota," says Spock in warning.

Then she pushes the boundaries more.

"You would leave your wife in want, so another might take her?"

He snarls then plunges his tongue inside her. He licks fervently, his mouth going up to her clit and sucking with his lips before he laps at it with his tongue.

Even bound she has enough leverage to move her hips up and down into his face. "Fuck, yes, Spock, yes," she calls out, driving into his mouth hard, pressing her clit into his thirsty tongue.

She can feel his thoughts through the touch of his fingers where he grabs purchase on her waist.

No other will take her.

No other will taste what is mine.

Keep bucking for me, Nyota.

Taste so good.

Want to lick you til you scream.

Scream for me, Nyota.

Fuck my face, fuck fuck, yes. i

Come in my mouth, come all over my tongue, let me drink you let me taste you, please, please, please.

He's plunging his tongue inside her when she finally gets there, her hips seizing uncontrollably. She's still coming when he pulls his mouth from her, moves up, and shoves himself in so hard, filling her completely, so much that she burns with it.

He stills inside her, his shoulders and biceps flexed, taut and shaking.

"So tight," he says. His voice is unsteady. He begins to move slowly and each thrust feels hot and tingling inside her.

She wants to wrap her arms around his waist and pull his hips into her fast and hard. "Please, please, please, baby," she asks.

"Are you never satisfied, slut?" he asks, reaching up to tear off the restraint holding her left ankle up, then the one holding up her right. Once released, she immediately digs her heels into his back, propelling him faster.

He still moves inside her even as he reaches up with one hand and unclicks the lock on her cuffs, but he hips her wrists bound in one hand as he pumps in and out, growing faster.

Spock's breaths are gasps. His mouth is slightly ajar as he watches her. With his free hand, he pulls up Nyota's shirt, watches her breasts bounce as he pounds in harder and harder.

With their hands so close together now, she can feel every turn and sharp corner of his mind. She wants to meld, but she knows that won't come until later. Spock is patient and precise, and she has no doubt that he's considered carefully all the ways he wants to have her.

She's missed this, missed him. The way their bodies collide anxious for release, the sound of him panting, his firm, reassuring grip over her wrists, the perfect angles of his body. His stubble. The way his hair becomes unkempt when he moves. The way he bites his bottom lip when he's trying not to growl.

It's the slow unwinding of his logic that gets Nyota.

"Look at me," he says.

She opens her eyes. His cheeks are flushed dark green. Dilated pupils make his dark brown irises look black.

Spock leans down for a kiss, ungentle. Warm, soft lips meet hers violently. His tongue caresses her tongue. Nyota bites his lip, and he groans and plunges into her faster, harder, claiming her with his cock.

She bites him again on the lip and it makes him lose control. His grip falters on her wrists and she's able to get them free.

She digs one hand into the back of his neck and the other into his mid-back, scraping hard with her nails.

His eyes flash toward her darkly, accusatory. Why do you continue to rile this-one when already this-one is fucking you? Is this still not enough? Are you so lustful, so slutty, that even as this-one slides in and out of thee, you are in want of more?

She wants him to come. He's holding back, in perfect control even as he moves forcefully and fast inside her, his pelvis bumping over and over again against her clit. But she wants to feel and to see him stripped bare.

Don't want this to end, he says.

You can have me many more times tonight, says Nyota. Is this-one not yours to do with as you please?

He makes a sound quite unlike himself, a short-lived whine.

Then moves his face down to take a nipple into her mouth. The flick of his tongue is lightly, hot. And he knows it's that barely-there touch that Nyota can't take. He was the one who was supposed to come but at the feel of him playing with her nipple so very softly, so in contrast to the way he fucks her pussy, she feels it building inside her again. The head of his penis hits her right where the nerves seem most densely populated, each stroke of his lok a shock of incomparable pleasure. She thrusts her hips up hard to meet his stroke, quickening their pace once again.

She's seconds away from her third release tonight, and Spock toys with her, keeping her on that painful edge.

"Please, baby, let me come," she says.

"Have you not trembled and shaken and convulsed for me twice already?" Spock asks. "Are you so selfish that you won't let this-one take his pleasure in you how he sees fit?"

Do what you want with me, she says, this-one is your little fucktoy.

And her words have the desired effect. His pace quickens and stroke hardens, his lok ramming into her unfettered now, testing the limits of her body.

She squeezes her fingers hard into his back and shoulder, drawing blood, and he locks his teeth into the side of her breast, marking her hard, and she's done. Her body floods with heat and her eyes fill with white light as she quivers, lost in the buzzing sensation that makes her feel so thoroughly sated and fulfilled, a hollow being unhollowed.

"I am going to spill my seed on your chest, Nyota," Spock says, the tightening of her walls and the jerking of her hips bringing him to his own release. Spock pulls out and shoots his ejaculate onto Nyota's breasts, across her nipples, hot spurts against her skin.

Spock's chest heaves as he tries to inhale heavy breaths, and Nyota is still too out of it to recall she is out of breath. Her head rocks from side to side, lost in pleasure.

Spock nuzzles her face. Presses a long, hot kiss against her lips. Then pecks her cheeks and nose. He brushes hair that's damp against her sweaty forehead off her face. "So beautiful, so beautiful, so beautiful," he says, voice quiet. Nyota doesn't think he realises he's speaking the words aloud.

"My Nyota, my Nyota."

Nyota pulls Spock close to her, stroking his hair, and he moves onto his side so they're front to front. She tucks her head into the crook under his chin, rubs her fingers through the dark hair on his abdomen.

Spock is hard again, but he makes no move to relieve it.

Nyota reaches her hand down and grabs it but he moves her hand away. "Are you sure?" she asks. "I can keep going."

And the part she doesn't say out loud but he hears anyway: I want to be enough for you.

"At present, this-one is content to lie with thee," Spock says.

Nyota is content to lie with him, too. Content to be near him and to finally be able to touch him and let her mind be free with him.

She's spent the last half year thinking he was done with her. That there was a part of him he kept secret because he no longer wished to share his mind with her.

There's a fear that once his Time ends, he will come back to his senses and reject her again.

Spock kisses the top of her head. "Nyota," he says, reaching for her hand. They clasp fingers tightly.

"I'm going to get a drink, okay?" she says.

He gets up to follow her when she stands, rubs her shoulders as she fills a cup with water from a glass pitcher. She gulps it down.

"I have exhausted you," he says, kissing the back of her neck. Spock drops to his knees, pushes his face against her lower back and bare ass, lays kisses on them, then onto the back of her thighs. "Would you hate me if I said I desired to have thee again, now?"

Nyota relaxes into the feel of Spock's lips. She shivers. "How do you want this-one?" she asks.

"Bent over. Compliant. Wet," he says. "Stand against the wall."

Nyota turns her head back over her shoulder to look down on Spock, still on his knees behind her. "And if I do not?"

"You would disobey your husband so brazenly?"

"Yes," she says, then darts away from him toward the bathroom.

Because he's on his knees, she gets the jump on him. Nyota's still not fast enough. Spock reaches out and grabs her by the calf. Tripping, she catches herself with her palms.

"You pretend not to want this-one even as he smells your fresh want?" Spock asks, grip firm on her leg. He pulls her toward him and she gasps. "Why does it please you to taunt me thus?"

"This-one doesn't mean to tease," Nyota says, but her light tone belies the truth.

Spock grabs her by the waist and pulls her up so that she's on her knees and forearms. His hard cock touches her ass. It twitches as it grows harder,

Fuck. Yes.

Yes, what, Nyota?

Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, please, she says through the link, too lost in need to speak verbally.

Tell me you want my cock. Say it out loud, says Spock.

"Want your cock," she says. "Need it inside me. Need you to fuck me with it."

She pushes the front half of her body lower down, her head touching her forearms. She arches her back, lifting her cunt closer to Spock, so he can enter her from behind. The rug provides minimal cushion, and her knees hurt, but it's nothing like the ache between her legs.

Promise you will be good for me—that you will obey me—and I will give my slut what she desires.

"I'll be good," she says, panting as he begins to place the head of his lok near her entrance, teasing her.

"You will obey me?"

"I want you to do anything you want to me," she says, embarrassed that she means it. She's been with Spock for more than a decade, and she's long known she has little limits when it comes to what they share in the bed.

"How did you get so wanton, Nyota?" asks Spock, finally pushing himself into her.

He moans. It is short-lived in low in tone but Nyota knows she hears it, that soft-spoken uhn in the back of his throat.

So tight, so tight, so tight, he says. I want to fuck you until you are so spent you fall asleep in my arms, your body sticky with my come and smelling of my semen. Would you like that?

Yes, Spock, yes, says Nyota.

This time I will fill you with my seed when I ejaculate.

Yes, yes, shoot it deep inside of me.

You want my come, Nyota?

Shit, yes, please, yes.

Do you like the feel of it inside of you, hot and dripping?

God, yes.

Tell me how much you want it, he says, pumping himself into her harder now, one hand on her waist, the other reaching around to squeeze her right breast.

I want to come so hard that my cunt pulses and the tight feel of it makes you come and you make that sound you make like you're roaring and you spray your semen into me in four or five hot spurts.

She can hear his breaths grow both shorter and louder.

It gratifies me when you speak in such a manner, says Spock. It pleases me when you reveal to me your true nature. What would thy mother think of thee, Nyota? To know how much time thee spends craving this-one's lok? You push yourself back into me desperate for release, hungry for my semen. Perhaps I should take you now back to the Central Estate, so I might have you in front of all my kinsmen. They will know truly the depth of your desire for this-one. They will know that thee are mine. That only I can make you beg and moan.

Her climax hits her sharply. Pleasure washes over her body in escalating waves of, and she is gone completely

Spock leans down to bite her shoulder blade, so hard that Nyota screams and orgasms again. He spends himself inside her like he said he would.

One more time, Nyota, please. He lays onto the floor on his back. Ride my lok so that I may see thee fully?

Body still trembling in ecstasy, she straddles Spock's waist.

She takes off the shirt she still has on. Spock immediately reaches up to touch her breasts, rolling his thumbs over her nipples, licking his lips because he wants to take them into his mouth.

"Touch them for me," he says, this time speaking out loud.

Nyota knows he means her breasts. She begins to massage them as she sits on top of him, her groin right under his length. Hard as if he'd not just emptied his cock into her.

"So, so beautiful," says Spock. His voice wavers, unsteady.

Nyota shifts one of her hands to Spock's lok. Wrapping her fist around his erection. It is hot and green, especially at the head, and big, so much so that her heart still speeds up when she sees it, all these years into their bond. She wants to taste it. To wrap her lips around and taste his salty pre-come and make him rock himself into her mouth.

Spock groans as he reads her thoughts, and she continues to stimulate him with her hand, rubbing slowly and teasingly, marvelling at his thickness and length. No longer able to take it, she removes her hand and positions herself over him, lowering herself slowly over him, letting his lok spread her open til he's snug inside.

She moves herself gently at first. Short, shallow strokes. Once she has her rhythm, she begins to play with herself again, one hand on her nipple, brushing it lightly with her fingers, and the other on her clitoris, rubbing slow circles because she can't take much else right now. Spock steadies her hips, eyes flashing from his cock entering her pussy, her hand getting herself off, and her breasts, then up to her lips, and finally resting on her eyes.

As the hole builds inside her again, that bottomless want in her centre that makes her crave release, she begins to move faster, lifting herself so she's almost off Spock's lok completely, then ramming back down onto it hard.

Yes, Nyota, ride me.

She moves her hips up and down fast on top of him, tits bouncing. Her moans drown out Spock's laboured breathing.

"Need you so bad," she says and moves both of her hands to rest on the sides of his shoulders so she can have more control.

Spock pulls down and up, moving her faster than she's able to by herself. His thoughts slur together. Shemakesmefeelsogood Thisonedoesnotdeserveher Thisonedoesnotdeservethepleasureshebringsme

"Come for me, baby," she says. "Come for me so I can feel your semen inside me again."

"Nyota," calls Spock, then squeezes his eyes shut, lets his mouth fall ajar. His hips judder beneath her as he finishes himself off inside her pussy, then she collapses on top of him so he can hold her.

He rubs her back with the tips of his fingers, sending sparks of pleasure through her. Through his touch, Nyota feels his conflicting feelings. His desire to have her yet again, right now, no matter how spent she is. Did she not say she would allow me to do with her what I pleased? Is she not mine? Spock could continue to use her body throughout the night. Nyota need not be an active participant…

Then there is the other side of his feelings. Shame that he would consider abusing her thus, and a need to protect her safety and well-being.

Still on top of him, she draws her hand up to his face in order to touch his cheek. The heat of his mind hovers so close when she does that, and she cannot wait to finally meld. She knows that once they do she'll be fully absorbed in consciousness into his Time, her desire as thick and all encompassing as his.

"I am conflicted, Nyota," says Spock.

"I know," she says.

"Tell me what course of action to take."

"This-one has already said you may have her totally and completely."

"I do not wish to hurt thee," he says, then adds on through the bond-link, as I have already hurt thee so thoroughly with my secrecy and distance.

And yet you are still hiding from me, she says. Holding back. Afraid to reveal the uglier parts of yourself to me even as madness Nyota rolls from on top of him, but he pulls her back toward him, his front to her back now. He reaches a hand around and moves it in a trail from her breasts to the hair over her mound, around her clitoris, to the edges of her opening.

"You smell thoroughly of me. It is pleasing,"he says. "I will have you again now, Nyota." He buries his face into the crook of her neck and nibbles the skin.

He enters into her from behind as they each lay on their sides. Because Spock can feel the tenderness inside her, his movements are slow and methodical. They begin that way, at least. With my semen still inside of you, you are so slick, Nyota. She shivers not from pleasure necessarily but the way he seems to possess and claim her.

Forgive me for hurting thee, he says, as his strokes grow faster, but she does not hurt yet. Spock feeds her his pleasure through the touch of his fingers, pushes the pleasure he gets from sliding in and out of her hot, wet, and wanting body over to her, so she may see how much she fulfils him.

Once finished, Spock has her again against the wall, and then another time as he holds her. She rests her head on his shoulder and wraps her legs around his waist as he shifts her up and down on his lok.

It is after that time that he carries her to the bathroom. He draws hot, hot bath water for her and lays her into the tub. It's wonderful, and Nyota can already feel herself reviving.

As much as this thought seems to please Spock, he lets her knows that she requires rest, and as his mate, he must make sure her requirements are met.

He pours liquid castile soap onto a wet wash cloth and starts with Nyota's neck, scrubbing her skin gently. He does her arms, under her arms, and her breasts, before telling her to stand up with her legs spread. Tired and wobbly, she needs his help to complete the task, and she leans on him as she stands. He moves the soapy wash cloth over her belly and back, going in slow, gentle circles. Afterwards, he tells her to turn around so he can do her ass. He washes both of her buttocks and in between, and massages her hole with his finger, still covered by the slick cloth. He inserts inside and moves it, and Nyota stiffens and clenches despite how good it feels. It's such an intense feeling, and it puts her whole body on alert.

"Relax, my Nyota," he says, sliding his finger in and out. She leans her weight more heavily onto him so she does not fall, bowled over by sensation. Nyota pushes herself into his touch.

"Spock," she says, her tone high-pitched and begging.

"Shhhh," he says and removes his finger from her. Nyota whines at the sudden loss of pressure. Spock rubs his first and second fingers with water, more soap, and bath oil. "Sit on the edge of the tub, Nyota," he says, and helps her to position herself. Her legs straddle each side of the wide ledge of the tub, one foot in the tub, one out, on the bathroom. Spock leans her forward until her head rests on her arms, which rest on the tub ledge.

When she's properly bent over, he slides his two oil-slick fingers into her ass and begins to work them in and out.

She wishes it didn't feel so good, so she could have some dignity about the whole thing, but it's not long before she's fucking Spock's fingers.

Such a good slut, he says. How can I resist you when you behave thus?

As Nyota rocks back and forth into Spock's fingers her clit rubs against the bath tub edge, and she's getting herself off from both directions.

"Are you going to come for me?" he asks. "With my fingers inside your tight asshole?"

Nyota can feel Spock's ecstasy as the tight walls of her ass clamp down on his sensitive fingers.

He sits straddled on the ledge behind her, and she knows he's rubbing his cock with his free hand. Can feel the sensations of it in her own groin.

When she comes, he does, too, his come spraying onto her buttocks, his fingers still inside her.

It's one of the best orgasms of Nyota's life, made better by how wicked she finds it all, grinding herself against a tub as her husband fucks her ass with his fingers—those fingers that won't even touch a stranger's hand.

"I do not know why I bother to clean you when you insist on behaving so dirtily," says Spock, but he helps her back into the tub to resume his ministrations, cleaning off his semen from her back, washing between her thighs. He funnels the water through the shower head so he can spray her off once he's scrubbed every inch of her.

After the water is finished draining Spock helps her to sit back down in the tub so she can rest her back against the porcelain wall.

Spock coaxes Nyota's legs up and open as he lets the warm flow of water from the showerhead fall between her thighs, increasing the pressure until she can take it no longer and comes again, convulsing in the empty bath tub, her legs bent at the knee and pulled toward her chest.

Spock carries her to the bed and pulls the sheet over her naked body. He is only semi-erect now as he fixes them both a meal of stir-fried noodles in the kitchenette. He is silent and single-minded. There is no small-talk between them. They eat together in the bed, and when Nyota falls asleep at around two o'clock in the morning, she hears him clean the dishes then shower.

Two hours later he nudges her wake, begging her, "Please, please, I need you again."

She nods her head and half-asleep lets him fuck her.

Nyota awakens more when she feels his tongue inside her, lapping ravenously at her clit. After he seems to have sated his hunger there, he licks downward slowly, over her labia, down her perineum, to the crease of her ass and then to the hole and it's like, fuck, he has never that before and Nyota is actually shaking it feels so good.

"Spock," she says, almost about to add, you don't have to do this, but she knows that he wants to. He licks her hole with the same vigour he applied to her clit. He fingers her vagina as he eats her out, and when she climaxes for the—she's lost count how many times she's come tonight—he lifts up and starts fucking her again. One leg wraps around his waist whilst the other he holds up in the air by the ankle with his hand, jutting his cock in and out of her hard until he releases himself.

He lifts her onto the kitchen counter and has her there.

Then lays her back onto the table and has her there.

The marks he leaves on her grow more numerous with each passing hour and by morning, she is covered with his teeth marks.

Spock bathes her again—but only after first having her in the tub. He sits down in it and has her straddle his cock, her breasts pressed into his chest as he moves her up and down on his lok.

There are periods of sleep but they are short-lived. An hour there. Two hours there. Sometimes, after only thirty-minutes of rest, she wakes up to Spock nuzzling her stomach with his face, asking if she would be amenable to him fucking her again.

He makes sure she eats and drinks water, rubs her skin with dermal regenerator, including that most sensitive flesh between her legs and inside her.

When she can no longer take his cock in her cunt, he fucks her mouth. He has her lie back on the bed and he puts a knee on each side of her face then presses the head of his lok between her lips.

It feels. So. Good.

It is becoming harder to tell the difference between what she is feeling and what Spock is feeling. She gets wrapped into his need and the pleasure he derives from being with her.

They meld finally and it is like being reborn, the past washed away and filled in with those secrets parts of each other only they two know. All of his shame and guilt washes away as she takes it on as her own because in experiencing it, she understands him completely and can therefore absolve him. In turn, any doubt she might have had about his love for her disappears into the engulfing warmth of his affection, devotion, and care.

She understands his jealousy, how rooted it is in his own self-loathing, scars from childhood that have not yet faded. He believes that he is neither Vulcan nor man enough for Nyota, and sometimes he pushes her away to This year, with all its changes and myriad pains, has compounded his insecurities.

Nyota sees that he's been staving off his Time for months by sheer force of will. He'd feared subconsciously that his pon farr would be worse than other Vulcans because of his lapsing control over the course of the year, not realising that his lapsing control was a direct result of the hormonal imbalances his Time brought.

It is a confusing blur of thoughts and impulses that he cannot pull together. Fear of losing Nyota. Fear of failing his daughters. The epiphany when he read Spock Prime's letter that he would soon have to confront a life without Nyota because he would likely far outlive her. And unlike Spock Prime, there would be no other Nyota awaiting him another universe even to look upon.

Instantly, their thoughts and emotions and experiences transfer to one another and they exist in complete harmony as Spock's fingers press into Nyota's cheeks as he makes love to her hard and long, their bodies intertwined in beautiful rhythm as each tries to stave off release.

The meld holds even after Spock moves his hand from Nyota's face.

Naked, mad with lust, sticky, they grind their bodies into each other, their tongues sliding against each other as they kiss.

Spock gives in first, his body racking with the climax when he can no longer endure the sounds of Nyota's breathy moans. As he pulses inside her, Nyota gives in, as well, and through the meld, they experiences each other's mutual pleasure seemingly infinitely until they both collapse in sleep.

It is not the last time they fuck and meld whilst there, but Spock's madness eases. He devotes himself to her pleasure and comfort: cleaning her, washing her hair, preparing her supper, forcing her to sleep.

When she awakes the next day—her second morning in the caves—Spock appears to be himself. He meditates in the corner with a borrowed asenoi from the room, dressed in a pair of loose-fitting trousers.

Nyota stretches but she feels limber all things considered. Nothing too sore. The hypos in bathroom medicine closet assured that.

She goes to check herself in the mirror. Spock used the dermal regenerator on most of the marks he made, but he'd left a few. One on her collarbone. One on the side of her breast. One on her hip.

Nyota brushes her teeth, splashes water on her face. Spock's sense of inner calm spreads to her via their bond, and she lets herself ride the wave of tranquillity. Such a change of pace from yesterday and the night before that. All she'd felt from Spock then was hunger, disquiet, driving need, and burning.

"Wife, I have prepared breakfast," he says. Nyota tosses her hair into a ponytail then heads out of the bathroom. "A porridge of nutrient dense wild millet. I have added sugar, sweet spices, and canned milk, as is your preference."

She kisses him on the cheek and takes a seat at the table. "Thank you," she says.

"I am gratified to provide for you," says Spock, taking a seat right next to her, scooting his chair closer. He has a bowl of porridge, too, but his is adorned only with nut butter he must have found in the cabinets. "Is this proximity acceptable?" he asks.

She smiles. "Very."

They eat their porridge together quietly. When they are finished, Spock sets them by the sink. He is beginning to wash them, his back to her, when he starts to ask a question. She can feel it in her mind before he speaks the words. "Nyota?"

"Mm?"

She's still a bit groggy, and even though she hasn't been up but half an hour, she could collapse back into bed—though preferably her own bed.

"I must apologise to you for my actions," he says.

Nyota grabs a cloth from the counter and wipes down the kitchen table. "I'm fine, Spock," she says.

"Because you are resilient, perhaps you are; still, I offer to you my regrets. I played a pivotal part in our marital discord, and I wish to make amends in any way that I am able."

"It wasn't just you, Spock. I should've—I could've been more understanding. I should've known. I was too caught up in my own shit at work."

"Nyota?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever plan to tell me that Maresh had acted toward you in a violating and unprofessional manner?"

Nyota leans back into the kitchen counter. "I don't know. Part of me of didn't think you'd care. Another part of me was just excited to be…desired by someone again. Part of me thought it was all in my head. Sometimes I still feel like such a stranger here despite everything. You and I had grown so distant that I started questioning my ability to read any situation right at all."

"My behaviour was so callous that you truly thought I might not care?" he asks.

Nyota walks toward him, embraces him from the side. "I was not exactly thinking clearly, okay, baby? We weren't talking. I didn't know what to think about anything. Selik got sick and then new job and that goddamn letter that freaked me the fuck out. It was the first time I'd ever seen you deliberately hide something from me. I thought—was that letter even from the other Spock? Or was that a codename for, I don't know, another woman you were seeing," she says, her head rested onto the side of his shoulder. He turns toward her and folds her into his arms.

"I didn't know what to think when you pulled your mind away from me like that. And to do it for months. You were angry at me all the time. It wasn't until the other night that I really had an inkling that you were jealous. What is it you said? You asked me if I thought Maresh would let Selik go on her kahs-wan," says Nyota.

Spock kisses Nyota's forehead. "I was foolish, ashal-veh." He squeezes her into his grasp more tightly. "Maresh sensed there was something amiss between us and that was my doing. He never would have taken liberties with you in that way had he not. I should have protected you."

"Spock. Truly. It's okay. Barely anything happened."

"It is not 'okay.'"

"Well, it will be okay then. We're going to get through this. We're talking now, right? That's step one."

"What are the subsequent steps?" asks Spock.

Ever pragmatic.

"Maybe seek some outside help? Spend some time to ourselves? Take time off work? I don't know. I hadn't really thought about the other steps. I just know that the most important thing is that we're talking," she says as she stands in his arms, her head rested on his chest.

"I am committed to doing whatever is necessary to repair us," he says. After a moment, he speaks again, kissing the top curve of her ear as he does so. "I am also relieved that you appear to be well." He nuzzles his face into her cheek and nibbles her earlobe.

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"I mean that I was quite forceful in my attentions to you. I am pleased that I did not hurt you."

She smiles, steps away so that she can see his face as she tells him this. "You didn't hurt me at all. You made me feel good. So good."

He takes her chin in his hand, leans in slowly and kisses her lips, first a peck, then a nibble. I lack the eloquence necessary to express in words how thoroughly and completely you pleased me, ashal-veh, he tells her through touch.

"I'm anxious to return home," she says. "I miss the girls. God, I wonder what T'Pau told them."

"I, too, wish to return the compound. I wonder if Selik has yet forgiven me for forbidding she go on her kahs-wan, though I know it is illogical to speculate on her condition and I will find out soon enough."

Nyota gives Spock one last kiss on the lips. "You're a good father. We're going to figure this all out, I promise."

Spock makes a call to an attendant or servant, or perhaps T'Pau herself.

Whoever he calls, it's Varum who picks them up.

He looks more mussed than usual, his fringe not so perfectly trimmed, a hint of dreariness in his eyes. "Nam-tor du vik?" she asks, inquiring if he is will.

"I am…" and she notes the slight hesitation, "adequate. I have had the honour of acting as Amayel and Selik's personal body guard over the past two days."

Oh, hell. Poor thing.

"Did they treat you favourably?" asks Spock.

"Indeed, they did. They do, however, require much direct supervision; and they do not sleep as much as they are required to, which I do not see the logic in. I am pleased to inform you that they were gracious in practising Standard with me. Last night we attended a banquet with Honoured Mother T'Pau and they—well, are you aware that Selik has a particularly dedicated suitor? They frequently tried to elude my watch but I assure you I kept steady protection," says Varum. He controls the flitter by hand rather than relying on the autopilot.

He sounds intensely proud but exhausted in every way by his extended time with the twins.

Talk of Amayel and Selik makes Nyota more anxious to return home, and she's glad it appears to be a short drive.

She is on the way home, her adun next to her, and it could not feel more good.


End file.
